Pendulum (IC Book V)
by veagleeyev
Summary: Much like a pendulum, a pushed man pushes back, and like a pendulum, Eragon finds himself on the return. But by law of nature, the seeds of evil will oppose the fruits of good with equal force. [Used to be called "Where Loyalties Lie." Rated M for gore and suggestive themes. Post-Inheritance.] R&R
1. I

**There are a few things I would like to mention before you begin reading. First, I'd like to point out that this is all typed using Notes on my iPhone, and as a result, I cannot indent. I tapped space five times, but it doesn't carry over through the file in copy/paste mode. Perhaps I'll edit it later with my computer, but I'm kinda lazy, so I probably won't. Second, I want you guys to critique my writing. I can take constructive criticism as long as it's not actually calling me stupid, but just helping me improve my writing. I also would like to see if you find many typos. Also note that while I primarily use the North American dialect, I have a habit of using variations from the UK, so there may be an alternate spelling you are not used to. Thanks, and enjoy!**

 **I don't own the Inheritance Cycle. Don't sue me.**

Ebrithil: (Elvish; _pl._ Ebrithilar) "Master" ( _lit._ "Master") EE-brih-thill

 _ **I**_

 _A woman sang, her palms cupped as if holding water, her voice rising and falling like breaths. Vines twirled and entangled, layering themselves to form the body of a ship, stems extending to form a mast and tip. Leaves rose from the back to forge a mast and tip, and two pairs of vines on either side of the deck rose to the tip of the mast, with a seemingly grated formation between._

 _The woman blew into the cups of her palms, the ship fading along with her voice in the horizon. She turned, her green eyes as the leaves of Du Weldenvarden, glistening like emeralds._

 _"Awaken, Shadeslayer."_ Eragon frowned. The name, as well as the voice, sounded familiar.

 _Little one, if you sleep any longer, I will singe the bangs off your face._

Eragon struggled to separate his eyelids, and he squinted in an attempt to keep them open. Heat and moisture rolled across his face. Blinking twice, Eragon pushed his upper torso and head up with his arms to stare at the condemning face of a dragon.

"S-Saphira?"

 _What other creature could possibly be this beautiful?_

The corners of Eragon's bottom lip twitched.

"I heard someone else," Eragon announced, searching the room. "Wh-?" His elven eyesight allowed him to recognize the form a beast standing across the room, arms crossed. The beast was bipedal, with the fangs and mane of a lion, except his fur was blue. Pointed ears protruded from the hair circling the head.

"Blödhgarm? What are you doing in my chambers?" Eragon interrogated before recollecting his manners and putting two fingers to his lips.

"Astra esterní ono thelduin, Kingkiller," saluted Blödhgarm.

Eragon rubbed his eyes with clenched fists and replied, "Atra du evarínya ono varda," then continued in human tongue, "What brings you here?"

"Queen Arya requests an audience with you at the mirror."

"Tell her that I will join her shortly. You have been dismissed." Blödhgarm threw himself over his knees, rose to posture and exited the room.

Eragon rolled his eyes as soon as the elf left. Blödhgarm had insisted upon treating Eragon as a superior, no matter how many times the Rider assured him such customs weren't necessary. There was just no reasoning with an elf.

 _Elves... Wasn't there—Arya!_

Eragon jumped in place; pushed the plain, dark green bedding aside and sprung for the door before a tail stopped him. Indignant, Eragon whirled to face Saphira.

 _Are going to let me through?_

 _That depends_ , chortled the deeply blue dragon. _Are you going to greet Arya undressed?_

Eragon's face dropped down to observe his bare torso, but his head didn't come back up. Ears hot, Eragon gave a hurried apology to Saphira before dashing across the room to a doorless closet, where vines suspended an assortment of clothing. Eragon hesitated, pondering what to wear.

 _Really?_ bantered Saphira.

 _What?_

 _Little one, you don't know how to dress, and it's only when the she-elf scries you that your care if you garments even match._

 _Are you going to help me or not?_ If he glared any harder at Saphira, he feared he would gaze through the dragon's skull.

 _Well, if you must know, I think one of the elven tunics would be ideal. Just don't go too formal._

 _"_ Thanks," he muttered.

 _What would you do without me?_

Eragon refused to answer. Instead, he silently pulled on his leggings, slipped into a tunic and sauntered out a doorway. He continued right, exiting a rectangular room filled with doors leading into living quarters.

The Rider loped through an arched, stone hallway, his boots tapping on the marble floors, the sound reverberating throughout the corridor. Carvings on the walls spoke of legends of Algaësia. Every hallway contained a different tale, this one depicting the story of King Carvahall.

Eragon smiled and recalled how—under tedious instruction from Orik—he'd attempted to etch the glyphs perfectly. When Eragon had questioned the purpose of such meticulous accuracy, Orik laughed.

 _"Every dwarven child knows that you have to be careful with stone! If Gûntera had chiseled off our noses when making us, it would've been a disaster!"_

Eragon missed his friends, but at least he could scry them. Even Nasuada set aside the time to make contact. Arya, however, was a different matter, for her duties as Queen of the Elves left no time for small talk. In fact, Eragon hadn't heard from Arya in two years, when they'd parted forever.

Eragon's thoughts ceased upon reaching the end of the hall, where a large room stood. Water brushed over the carving of a dragon, which flowers surrounded. Benches and support beams sing from trees lined the edges of an overhang. A glass dome reached from the near edges of the elevated ceiling, letting the stars speak their wisdom.

To Eragon's right, a hammock woven of vines hung between two trunks and extended into branches and pine needles. In front of the hammock was a fireplace; a mirror outlined in gold hung on the mantle.

In the mirror, a face stared, its skin contrasted by jet-black hair. Two eyes greeted his, green as the forests of Du Weldenvarden, sparkling like emeralds.

 _Arya..._

Eragon didn't react until Arya put three fingers to her lips and projected distant sounds from her mouth. Dazed, it took Eragon a few seconds to recognize the elven greeting, which he returned. Saphira poked her head through the tree trunks, shadowing Eragon in his hammock.

"Greetings, Eragon, Saphira. I'm sure you're full of questions, but they will have to wait. The first egg hatched to an Urgal. The Urgal is quite adept at magic, and of course, combat. The other hatched for a dwarf."

Eragon studied Arya's troubled expression. "And what of the dwarf?"

"Good with magic, but don't expect her to do well in combat."

 _Why does she have to be so vague?_ "Is it lack of experience? She _is_ old enough, right?"

Arya maintained her nonchalant countenance, but Eragon wondered if he'd seen her lip twitch. "Oh, she's definitely experienced, and she's more than old enough." The Rider frowned; he was never good with riddles. He looked to Saphira, who simply blinked.

 _Wait for her to speak. I don't want to make assumptions._

Eragon, sighing, demanded, "So what's wrong?"

Arya remained silent before speaking, reserved, but her brief moment of hesitation conveyed an internal conflict. "Eragon, she's old, even for a dwarf. She's Orik's great aunt." She paused again. "I don't know if she can make the journey."

"Oh. Are you... I mean, is Vanir guiding them?"

Eragon knew with certainty that an emotion flickered in her expression. "Vanir's dead. They found the marrow sucked from the bones."

Eragon's eyebrows shot up. "But that would mean—"

She nodded, and Galbatorix's words plagued Eragon's mind:

 _"The eggs in Dras-Leona weren't the only ones I took from the Lethrblaka."_

Part of Eragon felt guilty for not pitying Vanir more. Vanir may have antagonized him, but nobody deserved such a fate.

 _Pardon me, Arya, but without your ambassador, who's going to to transfer the eggs?_ Saphira's tone seemed distant, and her neck strained in an attempt to see around Arya in the mirror.

"I will," the elf decreed.

"B-but—If you—Wh—?" Eragon shook his head. "How?" he questioned, mouth agape. The sense of duty Arya felt rivaled Nasuada's; the yawë tattooed on her shoulder testified to it. For her to leave the throne...

"I'm not resigngning. My duty to my people comes above all else. I'm simply filling in a position temporarily."

"But, if you're gone..."

"Däthedr is more than capable of momentarily taking my place."

Eragon remained unconvinced. "And what of the Ra'zac? Surely your people wouldn't approve of your leave while those abominations roam Algaësia."

"Only Fírnen, Däthedr and I know the truth of Vanir's passing," she explained before adding, "And of course you and Saphira."

The Rider put a finger to his chin. It'd be faster on dragonback than by ship to get to the Order, but such a distance would surely tire Fírnen. And with creatures like the Nïdwal...

Arya, seeing his concern, reproached, "Honestly, Eragon. It's like you don't want to see me."

Eragon looked to Saphira, not wanting to see the pain on the queen's face.

"Arya, it's not that. I just—"

"Just what?"

He looked back at Arya; her face showed nothing of the accusation stitched into her words, which somehow hurt worse. "I'm just worried," he admitted, relieved to see her sternness soften at his words.

"I'll be fine. Fírnen and I have to get going." She paused, her lips pursed, as if to say something significant. "Take care, okay?" Then the elf faded from the mirror, leaving Eragon to stare at his and Saphira's reflection.

 _They'll be fine, little one. The she-elf and Fírnen are strong._

He stroked her muzzle, noting how she called Fírnen by name.

* * *

"You two care for each other," noticed an aged and feminine voice from behind Arya. Her hand lifted from her side, but the same woman chided, "Must we really tire ourselves with such customs? We both know I'll butcher the words anyway." The elf's lip twitched.

"Hello, Théraen." Arya turned around to face a short woman, whose short and silver hair was streaked with dark grey. Her wrinkled skin did not detract from her beauty. Her cheeks still retained definition, and the sides of her face adjoined to a point. Her irises were a deep ocean as blue as Saphira's scales. The stature of the woman, combined with her accent and muscle tone, spoke of dwarven origins.

"What's the story between you two?" Théraen inquired.

Arya raised her right eyebrow. "What makes you think there is one?"

The dwarf chuckled. "Don't give me that. There's always a story. I can see it in the way you two look at each other; I hear it hiding behind your words. Few are blessed with an opportunity such as you two share."

"Perhaps, but one should not dwell on what cannot be."

"Maybe, but trust me, this is a rare chance. Don't let it get away." Silence shrouded the room. "Have you finished packing? We need to leave in the morn, and dusk is nigh."

"I'll get on it. What about Kurdka?"

"You needn't concern yourself with him. I'll deal with it."

The elf nodded, unable to verbalize her gratitude. Although Arya had lived over a century, the elderly Apprentice made her feel like a child. In some ways, the dwarf filled the gap Islanzadí never had. Footsteps faded, followed by the clicks of a shutting door.

The elf rummaged through her clothes, finally pulling out the casual wear she had enjoyed as an ambassador. As pretty as a queen's attire was, it wasn't terribly comfortable. She gazed back into the mirror, half-expecting Eragon to be there, but only met her own reflection. She sighed in disappointment.

Arya supposed she didn't look bad. She'd even go as far as saying she looked good. Her features, mature and proportional, were natural. She didn't need to alter them; she was comfortable with what she had.

The current array, however, appeared ridiculous. Tight at the top half of her torso, it constricted her hips, widening into a poofy bottom. Embroidered with regal flowers, it reminded her of the golden lily. She nearly smiled at the reminiscence, but she retained her composure.

The elf folded the civvies into the bottom of her sac, as well as anything that wasn't food or water, for such provisions had already been prepared. The issue was the unknown size of the Western Sea, and she didn't know where the dragons could rest.

A cluster of knocks sounded from the door. "My Queen, I bring news," announced a muffled Däthedr.

"Come in," Arya permitted.

The door opened to reveal an aged and bowing elf. "Firstly, I thought you'd be happy to know I have a ship docked for you to sail west. I also figured you should know the Lords and Ladies request an audience. It appears they've come up with another reason for you to stay."

"Thank you. Tell them I'll be there shortly. You have been dismissed." Däthedr bowed, turned and strolled out the door, gently shutting it behind him. Arya set an unfolded shirt on her nightstand. Packing would have to wait.


	2. II

**Another** **long chapter, and I apologize. Also, I realize Arya coming to Alalëa is a tad unlikely given the circumstances and her sense of duty, but it's crucial to the story that she meets them for other plot elements. Plus, politically speaking, she'd remain the closest to the Riders, so I guess she's the best to go. The same things I said last time apply and will for every chapter. For those of you who hate long chapters, hang in there. At least read the next one, because it should be considerably shorter, and in my opinion, much more amusing.**

 **I still don't own Inheritance Cycle; it hasn't changed since the five minutes you read the last chapter.**

Eldunarí: (Elvish; _pl._ Eldunarya) A dispensable organ of a dragon which contains its consciousness ( _lit._ "Heart of Hearts") el-dune-ARE-ee

 ** _II_**

Eragon woke up with no recollection of his dreams. However, the sweat and tense muscles hinted at another night terror.

Ever since the war had ended, the young Rider's recovery had seemed delayed. He thought about the people he'd killed, about how they might have had families. Some of them had known love, and some of them didn't. Thanks to Eragon, none of them ever would.

Nightmares, harder than cockroaches to exterminate, disturbed his sleeping. Even when awake, they still found him. Flashbacks. Garrow dying, the fight with Galbatorix, Durza... All of it haunted him.

And then there was the sickness. There had been and would always be a profound human need to have friends, someone to rely on, someone to confide in. Eragon used to have that, until Fate stripped it away.

 _It probably enjoyed doing it, too._ His basic needs, ignored. He laughed, although no humor accompanied his thoughts.

His eyelids refusing to seal, Eragon crouched under Saphira's wing, shifting out through the gap, limiting contact with her scales as to avoid waking her. He let his eyes adjust the the moonlight and gazed around his room. It replicated the one he had stayed in at Ellesméra, except sung from a different tree. The trees here were taller, with more of a reddish hue. Their leaves were different too, the trunks typically the size of the room he currently occupied. They even rivaled the Menoa tree. He couldn't wait to show Arya; she would never believe him until he did.

At the mention of the former companion, Eragon's core filled with a dull ache, and a deep soreness permeated his heart each breath. No... His chest. He'd read that his heart resided on the right side, behind his ribcage. He also learned that his brain thought and felt, which Eragon found ridiculous. As smart as elves were, how could they think that one felt through their head?

Eragon headed to a balcony wide enough for Saphira to land, and began his descent along a vine. Upon reaching the bottom, he made sure to avoid the shrubbery with three-tipped leaves. Eragon and his elven crew had once experienced the misfortune of discovering the rashes it left.

Eragon hiked along a dirt path, cleared of plant life, towards the beach below. The forest around him blocked out the sky, so he cast a spell to illuminate the area around him. He reviewed the former scenery. The woods appeared taller than even Urû'baen, or dare he mention it, Helgrind. He shuddered at the name, remembering the Ra'zac and Galbatorix's warning.

He continued to a beach and squatted at the wet sand's edge, mesmerized by the waves, fog prickling his skin. Through the haze, he noticed light. Then, he noticed something one with normal human vision wouldn't: a mast. The sail depicted undefined shapes, but as the ship sailed closer, Eragon could trace the contours and lines clearly enough to see the elven insignia. Hope and anticipation filled him, and he ran along the side of the beach to be parallel with the dock, hoping the ship could find it. He doubted it in this fog.

 _How are they going to land? There's no light... What am I saying? I'm a magician!_ The Rider chuckled at not having the idea sooner.

"Garjzla!" An orb of light appeared above Eragon's outstretched hand. He waved it, hoping to attract the ship's attention. Slowly, the ship approached the docks, releasing an anchor next to the _Talíta._

 _Saphira?_

 _What?_ snapped the dragon.

 _They're here._

* * *

Arya walked through the sand, flanked by an Urgal, Kurdka, Théraen. Fírnen spiraled overhead amongst two dragons, one as orange as the sunset, and the other whose scales mimicked pearls. Saphira, her scales bluer than the daytime sky soared down a mountain over an unbelievably tall forest. Eragon emerged from the fog, unfazed by the time.

Arya halted, tailgated by her two followers.

She concentrated on the face of the greeter, and their gazes matched. Eragon lifted his hand, then stopped, hesitating. He let it drop, but Arya's arm flicked out to grab it.

The dwarf glanced between the two, saying, "Greetings, Ebrithil. While I would like to meet you, I believe there will be time for proper introductions later. Young Kurdka and I must rest, and our partners wish to spread their wings."

Eragon, without faltering in his staring at Arya, said, "The way up is steep, and there are inconveniences to avoid. I suggest reaching the hangars on dragonback. Saphira, would you be so kind as to guide them?"

The dragon landed beside him, huffing, yet compliant. Théraen bowed, and Saphira straightened her posture.

"We are honored by your hospitality. Let us leave these two in each other's company," she said, winking at Arya. She ignored the gesture.

"Goodnight, Théraen."

The orange and white dragons swooped down, forming a cloud of sand. Once mounted, they glanced at Saphira, who shot off towards the forest. Fírnen drifted from above, landing as softly as a leave by Arya. He let her on, and albeit grudgingly, Eragon too, before taking off.

Arya felt the warmth radiating from Eragon, satisfied and uncomfortable. Unsure of how she felt about having his arms wrapped around her, her eyelids burned in protest, demanding rest. Resistance proved futile, and she slouched forwards in her saddle.

* * *

 _Arya panted, her back against a wall, must permeating the hallway. Empty prison cells lined the wall opposite to her._

 _Voices echoed around the corner, and she tensed. If she moved, the scuffling would alert the sources of the conversation._

 _She needed to escape, but she didn't know why. Still, certainty gripped her, telling her she had to get out._

 _Hunger burned her stomach, and the need for flesh banished rationality. She turned the corner, charging the humans, her beak tearing at their flesh..._

* * *

Arya's vision fluttered on and off with her eyelids, before, groaning, she pushed her self into a sitting position. Her brain felt shrouded in mist, and she shook her head, trying to soothe its aching. Her stress response has been activated, but she couldn't decipher the reason.

The elf noted the quality of the comforters, and then the aesthetics of their room.

Reddish-brown wood defined walls the walls under a transparent ceiling. Stone baseboards complimented the earthly tones of the bark, but it felt awkward, for no other grey hues occupied the room. She supposed Eragon designed it; he couldn't dress in a way that was visually appealing, much less design a chamber.

Branches extended from the floor to form a wide balcony, large enough for a dragon to land, but still containing an over-abundance of brown.

She meandered to a dresser parallel to her bed on the opposite wall. A cupboard sat beneath a drawer, and the handles consisted of twisted vines. She pulled the drawer open, revealing clean clothes. She also explored the cupboard's contents, which contained Fírnen's saddle.

Arya paced over to the balcony, resting her arms on wooden rails, gazing over the forest that flowed down the mountainside, cut off by distance. She looked up, and the sun nearly blinded her. If the sun hung directly above, that'd make it roughly noon.

The elven queen summarized the previous night in her head. There was fog, and the captain had warned of crashing, but then there was a light leading them to the docks.

 _Eragon must have seen the ship and cast a spell_ , she concluded. She also remembered mounting Fírnen with Eragon. She could feel the warmth of his arms wrapped around her waist, gently squeezing whenever Fírnen turned.

 _Enough!_ _I cannot dwell on such things._

She couldn't recall landing, so she reckoned she'd fallen asleep. _Did Eragon carry me all the way here? I wouldn't be surprised. He carried me for miles on the way to the Varden._

Exhausting the activities left to do in the chamber, she exited into a a rectangular area filled with doors. At the end of the room was an arched corridor with some etchings along the walls. She recognized the artwork as dwarven, though not as precise. The pictures seemed to tell of a mad king, who fled to an area on the map which seemed oddly like... _Carvahall,_ Arya decided. The carvings told the tale of King Carvahall.

An Urgal stood at the end. "Master Arya!"

"Yes, Kurdka?"

"Théraen says to hurry before your lunch gets cold."

"You'll have to lead me there, for I do not know the way."

Arya gasped upon entering the next room, but regretted the openness. She'd seen the fountain, walls and floor when scrying with Eragon, but the angle of the mirror had blocked out the major details.

Something flickered in her upper peripheral vision. All four dragons flew below a large glass sphere, practicing aerial maneuvers.

Kurdka led her into a large dining area, filled with long stone tables, with strips of slab on either side for seating. Eragon, seated on their left, beckoned to them with his hand.

Arya positioned herself next to him, across from Théraen. Kurdka didn't take a seat, but instead took advantage of the pause in conversation.

"Excuse me, Masters, but I haven't had the opportunity to explore, and as an Urgal, I like to know the lay of the land."

Eragon appeared confused, but Arya gave permission, and when Kurdka left, explained. "Urgals believe the land to be holy. While it isn't a warzone, which is treasured above all else, it's his sanctuary. It's as close to a sacred homeland as he gets."

"Ebrithilar, while I hate to interrupt you two," Théraen led, stopping to laugh as they raised their eyebrows in unison, "I must inquire on the subject of my training. As you may know, my body isn't what it used to be."

Eragon pondered this, but Arya, who knew the dwarf better, offered, "Since your magic is above the basics of which we can teach you, I think it'd be best for you to learn from the Eldunarya."

Eragon, however, seemed troubled. "I'm not sure we can have you do physical combat. I don't even know if you can carry out missions."

"A topic for another time," the student dismissed.

"Théraen," Arya suggested, "perhaps you're not destined for the life of an ordinary Rider. I think you'd best serve as a caretaker for the eggs and Eldunarí."

The elder frowned, staring at the tabletop.

"I think you'd best consult Umaroth," Eragon decided.


	3. III

**I really hope I didn't breach Arya's or Eragon's character. Also, at the end with the final two lines of dialogue, I break off of any point of view and don't have anything to transition it, but it would have been too awkward to do it any other way. Let me know if it's too confusing. Also, this is one of the short chapters, of which there will be at least a few. Time will tell how many.**

 **I don't own the Inheritance Cycle. If I did, I wouldn't be here talking to you, would I?**

Faelnirv: (Universal, _sing._ or _pl._ ) Elven mead ( _lit._ "liqueur") FAIL-nerve

 ** _III_**

Eragon and Arya flew over the treetops, the wind buffeting their backs as it ripped at their clothes. Eragon pointed to a particularly large rock structure ahead and challenged her. "I'll bet I can get to that rock before you!"

"You forget how much faster I am. Don't make gamble on what you cannot win."

Eragon simpered. "On foot maybe, but not on dragonback!"

Arya frowned, pondering the taunt. Saphira surpassed Fírnen in experience.

"Oh, come on, Arya! Loosen up!"

 _Unless you're afraid of me, which I can understand_ , growled Saphira.

Fírnen volleyed ahead, his pride denying the insult, but not as much a Saphira, who did a barrel roll past him. Fírnen, eager to prove himself, did a loop-the-loop, and continued forward. In response, Saphira dove downward, rising directly in front of Fírnen seconds later. The green dragon simply flew over his rival, taking the lead.

Saphira darted towards their destination, and Fírnen, weary from travel, fell behind.

She did one last spiral before landing softly on the ground. Fírnen, in comparison, flopped onto the earth ten seconds later, his wings and legs outstretched. Arya's neck jerked in whiplash. She dismounted to storm over to Eragon.

"That's not fair! You knew he was tired!"

Eragon smirked before retorting, "Is it? I saw a weakness, and I exploited it."

"I seem to recall telling you something very similar when I smiled during a duel."

Eragon's grin widened. Saphira, laying with her head on Fírnen's back, not letting an opportunity to embarrass her counterpart, spoke up.

 _He hasn't grinned that foolishly since you kissed his forehead._

Eragon, his face flushed, denied it.

 _Then I guess you didn't dress nicely to scry her, either._

Arya laughed, then leaned over to kiss him on the cheek. She knew she shouldn't have, but felt no regrets. _Foolish girl,_ she scorned.

"What?" She didn't answer, determined to close herself off. When she noticed Eragon's face, however, she struggled to stifle a laugh. "What's so funny?"

Arya, coughing, said, "You're redder than Thorn now," and she let the laugh go, sharing the dragons'. Eragon buried his face in his hands, as if to shrink out of sight.

The elf cleared her throat. "Remember when Wyrden died, and we enjoyed his special faelnirv?"

Eragon looked up, his face still pink. "Most of it. Some parts are a little bit... Hazy..."

Arya snorted and ambled to the bag on the side of Fírnen's saddle, retrieving two bottles of mead. "It isn't quite as good, but you never got to enjoy the side-effects."

"Enjoy them?" exclaimed Eragon. "They were agonizing!"

"Stop complaining. I think you'll be glad for the experience." She handed him a bottle. Despite his earlier protests, he guzzled the liquid. Arya shook her head and sipped at the opening.

* * *

The sun seemed to run away from the moon, and took all the warmth with it. Eragon frowned, his vision distorted, and began to make a fire, but the dragons insisted on making it themselves. In fact, Saphira restrained him to prevent him from doing it. He thought it selfish of them. After all, he was perfectly capable of making a bonfire himself.

He and Arya shared stories: scary stories, sad stories, personal stories... Everything seemed funny. Who knew they were so hilarious? Finally, the laughter died down, and Arya's face straightened. "I missed you," she said, and Eragon sniggered.

"What?" she demanded.

"You're so serious!" They couldn't stop the laughter until it hurt.

 _Any idea what's so funny?_ questioned Fírnen.

 _None. Should we take them back?_

 _Just leave them. We'll pick 'em up tomorrow._


	4. IV

**Here I introduce a Ra'zac's POV. I realize how different his mindset will be from the Ra'zac seen in Inheritance Cycle, but these are young minds of different character, not influenced by the cruelties of the world as much. As the character developes, I really am eager on feedback. Well, more eager.**

 **Disclaimer: Must I really keep putting these? No, I don't own Inheritance Cycle.**

 ** _IV_**

A Ra'zac, flanked by two of his kind on his right and left, gazed over the torchlit village. Five houses and a shop occupied the small settlement. He held a bow, fashioned as similar as the human's tool as possible. He communicated in his native language to his counterparts in a series of clicks, snarls and hisses. No other race could understand their tongue.

His people had decided on a naming and ranking system. The first word would be the number of the order in which they were born, the second word chosen. His name, he decided, should be Ninth Survivor.

The hatchling to his left, Seventh Instinct, criticized Ninth for his use of human tools.

 _"One should use their claws and beaks to hunt, not a crutch by our prey."_

First Sorrow, his name chosen for his grief at the deaths of his nest-kin, hissed, " _Silence! Do not waste our time with petty squabbles when the light draws nearer."_

 _"You're right,"_ Instinct concurred. " _Tonight we shall feast until our stomaches bulge."_

Survivor snapped his beak in her direction, sickened. " _Do not take what isn't needed. It is a waste to take more than what satisfies hunger. We eat to live, not for pleasure."_

 _"You and your sentiments. Can we not enjoy ourselves this one night?"_

Sorrow hissed in exasperation. " _He's right. If we commit senseless slaughterings, are we no better than those who hunt us? What they did was of fear. If we do the same of pleasure, what does that make us? Ninth, cover us with that_ thing _. Instinct and I will hunt."_

The center Ra'zac clicked his beak together twice in acknowledgement, drawing the flying talons from the holder on his back, pulling on the string in preparation to release them.

Seventh Instinct and First Sorrow pulled black hoods over their heads, wrapping a cloak around them. Silently, they dove forward. First, followed by Seventh, stopped at the nearest structure, cutting around a window with their claws, setting the class gently down. Sorrow slipped through the opening, and Seventh followed. Upon halfway entering the building, a scream alerted the humans.

A man with a fire-tipped stick exited an adjacent building, shouting in a foreign tongue. Survivor slung his bow, pulled back the arrow and, aiming above the human's head, released his grip. The man fell, silenced, an arrow protruding from his neck. As Sorrow limped from the chosen structure, several more men with fire-sticks emerged, armed with shining... The Ra'zac paused to remember the human word. _Swords_ , he decided.

Slung over his shoulder, Ninth noticed, was a smaller human. First Sorrow, his hurt talon dragging through the dirt, ducked behind cover, stalked by his own prey. Survivor fired more arrows, as the humans called them, detracting as much attention from his comrade as possible. First dashed uphill, blood trailing behind him, and pointed to a cave far behind Ninth, the night's catch limp and oozing. The catch, he realized, was a mere hatchling. He resisted the urge to hiss and darted towards the rendezvous, unrelenting to any obstacle.

Eventually he reached a clearing, and he slowed from a sprint to a walk, continuing to the mouth of a cave, where Sorrow greeted him, hunched over the corpse of a small human.

Ninth Survivor noted the hatchling's features. Above its head, fur grew, and it hung down to the creature's shoulder blades. Its talons had five prongs, which hung off of some sort of arched body part. It's claws weren't pointed, either, but white parts seemed to extend from a grayish scale.

Its face contained no beak, but instead had a long strip down the center, which widened at the end and formed two holes. Its mouth had lips and teeth, though he didn't know what they were used for. The eyes were white except for the center, which had a dark gray ring surrounding a black dot.

Sorrow groomed the gash on his leg, nibbling when the wound itched.

 _"Instinct is gone, lost to those wretches. Was our nest not enough for them? Can nothing satiate their desire to kill?"_

 _"Relax, Sorrow. The world is a cruel place, and all seek to protect their young. It is nature's game."_ Survivor walked to his companion, nudging him with his beak in comfort.

Sorrow tensed at the contact, pulling away. "' _Nature's game?!' They have removed themselves from it, killing just to kill, from fear or for any reason but 'nature's game!' They hide behind walls, recluses of survival!"_

Ninth rattled his tongue in thought. Sorrow rarely lost his temper, even with the death of his friends. Then again, he and Instinct had retained a closeness of kin. They'd bonded like siblings.

The grieving hunter pulled his hood deeply over his head, struggling towards the exit of the cave.

 _"You seek to hunt under the light?"_

The predator paused, glancing over his shoulder, then replied, " _A Ra'zac should not be bound by their prey, even in death. They will know my wrath."_

Ninth analyzed him. " _You seek to slaughter them, to become what you despise?"_

 _"You don't understand. Justice is valid."_

 _"But revenge isn't justice."_

 _"Perhaps... I have a favor to ask of you, if you're willing."_

Eager to comfort his kin, he agreed.

 _"I am no fool; I know I shall not return. I am wounded, and I've yet to develop full use of my breath. The humans shall hunt us to no end. Remain vigilant, and bring the Ra'zac to glory."_

Before he could object, his friend left left, maddened by grief.

For the first time ever, Ninth Survivor was alone.


	5. V

**I didn't really enjoy writing this chapter as much, and I have a feeling it'll show at some point. The quality isn't as high as my other chapters; the POV isn't even properly established until deeper into it. Nevertheless, it contains some good character developement, and so it's not worth scrapping.**

 **It wouldn't be fanfiction if I owned it, so no, I don't own the Inherktance Cycle.**

Gáldïk Threzhid: (Urgish) "Day of the Hunt" ( _lit._ "Hunt Day") Gahl-DEEK THREH-zhid

 ** _V_**

Kurdka and Eragon sparred with sticks in an arena. Marble pillars supported planters, saplings planted on top of them, flowers in between. When Arya had asked Blödhgarm, who designed the room, why he didn't sing the saplings into trees, he replied, "The sparring quarters are a place of growth, and saplings are an object of it."

The floor consisted of stone tiles, and moss cut into the shape of a leaf occupied the floor. The tile was domed, rising until it reached the edge of the leaf, where the height cut off to floor level. Small boulders littered the room, providing height advantage.

Kurdka wielded a large sword, its blade a foot shorter than the Urgal wielding it. Despite its cumbersome weight, he wielded it with surprising grace. True, the design made it impossible to be agile, but its weight could certainly be exploited.

Eragon's _Brisingr_ depended on close range, and the length of the blade kept him distanced.

Eragon compensated for this by luring his opponent towards the pillars. Kurdka thrust his blade forward, attempting to use the weight of it to stagger the other Rider, who knocked the blade into the pillar, forcing him to release the blade to avoid injury. Before it clattered on the ground, the cold metal of _Brisingr_ chilled the Urgal's neck. "If you insist on continuing to use such a weapon, a fork can best you at close quarters."

"Excuse me, Shadeslayer," addressed a silver-haired elf. Eragon and Arya both whirled to face her.

"I meant him," she clarified, indicating Eragon with a bob of her head.

"Aye, Yaela?"

"When I was a but a young elf and determining my practice, I remember visiting Rhunön at her forge."

Eragon, curious in nature, turned to Arya, lips forming a soundless question. ' _Practice?'_

 _'Later,'_ she mouthed, but Yaela noticed his gesture.

"To answer your question," she said, amusement behind her words, "an elf must choose what it is they enjoy, so that they may pursue that subject."

Eragon acknowledged the statement, remembering how Rhunön once said something similar.

"As I was saying," she continued, "Rhunön, without looking up from her anvil, asked what weapon I wielded.

"Without hesitation, I told her a sword. Then she asked why, but I could not answer. She explained to me that everybody has a reason to wield a weapon, some sort of story behind it."

Eragon nearly objected, before remembering his training sessions with Brom, and how choosy he remained when trying to replace _Zar'roc_.

"If I may ask, Kurdka, why is it that you use such a weapon?"

The Urgal's eyes glistened, and he eagerly began, "There comes a time when an Urgalraga must gain his honor. When one is of age, they are subject to Gáldïk Threzhid, or 'Day of the Hunt'. We hunt a beast, and the more savage it is, the more glory we gain. It determines out status."

Eragon felt a desire to heave, for after connecting with so many animals to the point of humanization, the thought of killing one was a thought of murder. However, he maintained his composure, careful not to insult Kurdka. Insulting the Urgals' customs would be foolish.

"What I slew, however, was not a beast, but an Urgalraga of an enemy tribe. He too was engaging in Gázhïk Threzhid. However, he used a sword. This is a great dishonor among my people, for a beast has no more than the tools nature gave it, so we may only use our fists and horns against it.

"The sword he wielded weighed roughly the same as this one," he said, indicating the large weapon with a twitch of his sword arm. "Without hesitation, he swung it at my horns. One of my horns cracked, and the other came off. I picked up the blade and swung it back at him. The sword crushed his skull.

"My horns were broken, but I still returned to my tribe, bringing the dead body and sword with me. I was shamed by my people, horns are our pride. However, I gained enough honor to live in my village, although nobody let me enter a building."

Tears darkened the fur around his eyes, surprising Eragon. He'd never thought to see an Urgal cry.

"Kurdka, how is it... I mean, you've proved worthiness, but how is it—" Eragon stopped talking, frustrated. He couldn't phrase the words without being offensive.

"The egg? My tribe shunned me. They forbade me to touch the egg. It was one of the few times they acknowledged me. Because everybody ignored me, nobody stopped me from cutting in line to touch the egg.

"When it hatched, they tried to hide it, but I wasn't to be fooled. They locked him away, but I broke him out, and we left."

Eragon shook with emotion. The fact that they would do that... He visualized Kurdka lying on a dirt path, filthy and unfed, his dragon wrapped around him.

Arya's face, while displaying empathy, didn't portray shock. Eragon kept forgetting how much older the elf was, how much more of the world she'd seen.

The Urgal, slouching, looked up with his eyes, head tilted forward. "You think us evil, don't you?" Arya swung her head side-to-side, and Eragon tried to answer, but only a croak escaped him before he shut his mouth again.

Théraen approached from behind. "All things have evil in their hearts. We dwarves have shunned our children for dwelling in the tunnels. The Riders did much the same after Galbatorix lost his dragon. I imagine the reasons for such treatment shock you, Kurdka, as much as your experience shocks us. Sentients outcast what's different, a cruelty practiced through the ages, one that's slow to fix."

Eragon's body twitched, startled by the dwarf's sudden appearance, a reaction unseen since his last conversation with Angela.

"Now, if you'll come with me to the kitchen, I've prepared dinner. This lesson has gone on long enough."

Eragon flinched at the mention of dinner. It had been late morning when the dueling began, and the sun outpaced the schedule.

 _Saphira, lessons are over; it's time to eat._

 _Just don't get drunk this time,_ she teased.


	6. VI

**Disclaimer: You know what I'm gonna say already, so why say it?**

 ** _VI_**

Théraen stood in an eight-walled room over a large carving of a dragon in the floor. Shelves obscured the walls opposite to the entrance, and their contents glinted from enchanted lanterns.

The top half housed the Eldunarya, and the bottom half the eggs, both with room to spare. The largest items lined the left side, shrinking as the slots continued right.

Early in the morning, Théraen enjoyed conversing with the Eldunarya, particularly Glaedr, whose grief slowly faded, but still lingered. She often sought Oromis's council, but the ancient mind remained dormant.

A large, golden, spherical object sat on a pedestal in the center of the room, which the carved dragon seemed to wrap around.

Théraen expanded her consciousness, sensing the room for thoughts and emotion, visualizing the field of energy coursing through the room. In her mind, the energy tinted the empty space yellow, but where the energy spiked, the yellow grew more opaque of varying degrees.

Except, of course, for the shielded minds, which appeared black. Spots such as these occupied sporadic places among the top shelves, particular among the older specimens, and of course, the one in the center of the room.

She began to share the energy of her own consciousness with the centerpiece, pouring emotion and thoughts into it, aiming it at the desired target. The energy curved around the space, but after passing it, turned around to continue the assault.

Théraen could also see the other consciousness doing the same, but could not break the barriers. Neither mind slowed or intensified the flow, both parties content to wait until their opponent exhausted their resources.

Color occasionally blinked, but too brief to exploit, until the center pulsed for a moment longer, and Théraen poured all of her energy at once, cracking open the black shell.

 _Hello, Théraen,_ Glaedr greeted. _It appears you have bested me once more._

 _It would seem so, Ebrithil, though not at your best._

 _No,_ the dragon agreed, _but certainly better than Jurgenurl._

The dwarf smiled at the mention of her dragon. The name itself meant "Stone Dragon," but it varied between languages. In Dwarvish, Théraen slapped "dragon" and "stone" together, but she lacked the fluency to translate it to Elvish in an appealing manner.

She felt reciprocated affection across her bond, but as usual, her dragon spoke no words. Even upon deciding his name, Jurgenurl presented an image of a stone and himself.

Subconsciously noting the current flight lessons, Théraen analyzed what she missed when penetrating Glaedr's mind.

She felt a knife in her skull, as if a migraine ensued, and began to count.

 _1...2...3..._

The attack left no time for barriers, so the dwarf simply forgot everything in her stable concentration on the numbers.

 _4...5...6..._

The attacker began to count with her, but as if realizing what happened, resumed pushing through.

 _7...8—_

 _A child skipped through a tunnel, pebbles in hand, stopping before where her house should've been, only to see rubble._

Glaedr had broken through to her memories. _Very well; if it's memories he wants, he'll get them._

 _Steam ensnared her face, smells of cheese and freshly-baked bread stimulating her nostrils. She bit into the toast, the layer of melted cheese covering it adding a tang._

Théraen looped the memory of her breakfast through her mind.

 _Steam ensnared her face..._

She disregarded everything else, feeling Glaedr re-watch the single memory, but not heeding him, lest her thoughts shift.

 _Steam ensnared her face..._

The dwarf looped it through again.

 _Steam ensnared her face..._

Again.

 _Steam ensnared her face..._

 _How long has it been now?_

The thought provided Glaedr an opportunity, which he immediately seized, finally escaping from the repeated vision.

 _I think that's enough for today. Work on improvising your barriers. You don't want to let someone inside you, even if you can lose them there._

 _Aye, Master._

 _One more thing: teach Jurgenurl to shield his mind better. He needs to learn to not depend on you._

 _Aye, Master,_ Théraen repeated.

The Eldunarí withdrew from her mind, signaling for her to be dimissed. The dwarf sincerely hoped she hadn't missed dinner; it'd be a shame if Glaedr didn't see it.


	7. VII

**This chapter pter was incredibly fun to write, and I hope you guys enjoy it too! If you do a literary analysis throughout the former and coming chapters, you'll find that I use the naïve nature of Ninth Survivor to help convey my point. Of course, if I do it right, you shouldn't have to. Sorry it's short.**

 ** _VII_**

 _Bring the Ra'zac to glory..._ The task daunted Survivor, but it seemed doable. He just had to find other hatchlings and nests, and to do that, he needed information. If anybody knew where to find a Ra'zac, it'd be a human. The problem was that he didn't understand their tongue, and he seriously doubted they'd understand his. Sure, he could pick up a word or two, like he did with 'arrow,' but it wasn't enough; he needed more.

Currently, Ninth Survivor stalked a herd of humans, hoping to catch a straggler. A wooden structure rolled along the center, carrying various unknown objects. The structure, he learned, was called a wagon. It appeared to be pulled by some enslaved creature like the ones he'd seen humans trap in wooden barriers. Hunting around areas where plant life grew in rows had exposed the Ra'zac to such a concept, and he'd overheard the humans refer to such slaves as "chickens."

 _These poor 'chickens' are forced to pull these 'wagons.'_ He pitied them. Normally, Ninth Survivor only killed what he need to survive, but the tragedies of the past revealed the cruelty of the humans. Seeing the enslaved chickens woke something within the Ra'zac, and he vowed to free them at dusk, regardless of the humans he had to kill. Stalking his prey until night, Survivor waited to become salvation.

The moon eventually conquered the skies, allowing him emerge from the trees. The majority of the herd bundled up in sacs, only the man with a fire-stick guarded them. The chickens, bound by their necks to a tree, rested off the dirt paths.

The Ra'zac drew an arrow from his quiver, holding it inside his bow, but not yet pulling the string. Crouching, he crept into a position just out of view of the fire-stick wielder, unleashing an arrow into him.

However, the hunter failed to realize that wood caught fire, and it surprised him when the flames grew in size to cover the wagon. A member of the pack jostled out of his portable nest, shouted a word and drew his sword. The rest of the humans reacted in a similar manner, though some of them screamed and ran.

Shrugging, the Ra'zac sprinted down the the chickens, cutting the rope with his talons. Through the chaos, he darted to the body of his victim, grabbed it by the wrists and began to drag it out of the crowd.

One of the humans approached Survivor, obviously trying to talk to him. When he looked back at the creature, it pointed, shaking, and screamed, drawing the attention of those around it. Within seconds, a ring of drawn bows, swords and knifes surrounded him.

 _At least the chickens are safe._


	8. VIII

**Here you guys go! Finally some actual Arya and Eragon fluff! Note that I won't have any lemons, and I have several reasons. The main one is that in elven culture, children are revered above all else. I seriously doubt Arya would risk having one without steady exposure to the father, which isn't gonna happen. Plus, she's Arya. She isn't gonna dive in and have sex as soon as she reveals her feelings, especially when she thinks doing so makes her weak. Also, I will have an implied lemon with a different couple later, but will not describe it. Sorry guys, but it would be wrong for me. I have a different mindset, and a whole ton of psychological stuff behind why I won't that isn't really something I'll share.**

Eka achí sem wiol ono: (Elvish) "I did it for you." ( _lit._ "I did this for you.") EK-kuh ah-CHEE SEM WEE-ohl OH-noh

 ** _VIII_**

It was Arya's last day before she left for Ellesméra, and Eragon intended to spend it with her. Saphira felt the same way about Fírnen, it seemed, because she hadn't even stopped interacting with the other dragon to tease her Rider. While dragons remained polygamous, Arya's and Eragon's relationship seemed to affect their bonded counterparts.

 _Is it a relationship?_ He frowned, uncertain. It certainly felt like it. The couple currently strolled down the paths, Eragon making sure to point out the rash-inducing leaves. A rash wasn't going going to keep Arya from her duties, and Eragon didn't want her to suffer on her way back more than she had to.

"Eragon, watch out!" Arya's warning ripped him from his mind, but the object he almost ran into would have anyway.

His eyes widened when he saw what the object was. A ship, woven entirely of greenery, floated in front of them.

"How did it get through the forest?" questioned Eragon.

Arya smiled at him. "It's one of the world's many mysteries." Eragon would have chuckled, but had been too shocked that Arya smiled. He felt accomplished whenever he got her to. He also felt entranced by the warmth, finding her even more beautiful. He just wished she would smile more often.

"Enjoying the view?"

"Huh?"

"You're staring again."

"Oh." Eragon's ears reddened, an effect Arya remained proficient at causing.

Eventually solid ground moved underneath his feet, and when combined with the sudden change in slope, made Eragon trip every time. Somehow Arya transitioned onto the beach without incedent, but he'd expected as much from the elf.

The waves' intensity lessened greatly during the daytime, rising up to hip level. He ran towards the water, beckoning for Arya to follow.

"Eragon, if you really want to hike back in wet clothes, you can. I'm not going to."

"Come on! It'll be fun!"

"No it won't."

"You don't trust mine own word?"

Arya refused to show it, but he knew the question triggered guilt. "Are you sure?"

"Mostly," he answered. The elf raised an eyebrow at the word.

"Oh come on. You owe me after the mead."

"Oh really? You seemed to enjoy it."

"Not when Saphira and Fírnen ditched us," Eragon complained.

"Neither of us can predict the future, Eragon. How was I supposed to know they would do that?"

"How are you supposed to know this won't be fun?" he countered.

Arya sighed. "If I go into the water with you, will you leave me alone?" He nodded. "Okay, Eragon, have it your way. As long as you tell Fírnen and Saphira to take us back when we're done."

"I will," he lied, but the elf wouldn't given in until he swore in the ancient language.

Eragon reached the water first, but realized Arya still stood at the edge of the waves' grasp. He rose up, shivering, and his clothes gripped his skin. He contemplated pulling her in, but immediately decided against it when he saw Arya's face.

The skin around her eyes reddened, and she trembled with the effort to stand. Realization wormed into Eragon's mind. Arya was afraid of the water. He cursed himself for not seeing it when she hesitated earlier. However, he could not sit and watch her suffer now that he had.

"Arya? Are you okay?" He stepped towards her, but she didn't seem to notice him. The only thing that seemed to exist for her was the water she stared at.

"Arya?" No response. "Arya!"

She looked over to him, and the fear melted from her face. "Hmm?"

"Arya, you blanked out. Is there something I should know?"

"Eragon, it's nothing."

"It clearly was something. Arya, it's okay, just tell me what's wrong."

"I'm fine!"

Eragon backed up, hands raised defensively. "You don't have to tell me if you don't want to. I'll call Saphira."

Arya sighed. "I suppose I owe you an explanation. Remember when you saw my memories from Gil'ead?"

"Aye."

"Whenever I try to touch water, I get these... Flashbacks. I get stuck, forced to relive my torture."

Eragon's face whitened. He remembered the cuts and bruises on her body, and he felt the same rage within him. Arya's eyes conveyed the same thing, but with an intensity beyond what Eragon felt.

"They nearly drowned me, Eragon. They'd pull me up and heal my lungs before pushing me down again. I can still feel the pain from breathing in water." Eragon shuddered, knowing he wouldn't have been strong enough to resist.

Without another word, Eragon opened his link to Saphira, ignoring the heat in his ears. _Saphira, I'm by the docks. We need to get Arya to the temple right now._

 _Not now, little one,_ the dragon replied, withdrawing from his mind.

"Barzûl!"

"No luck?" Arya guessed.

"Not yet." He tried contacting Saphira again, but the dragon denied him. He groaned, and tried again. _Guess I'm gonna have to force my way in._ He poured his emotion into breaking through Saphira's barriers, seething with righteous anger at Durza. He remembered the slaves in Dras-Leona. He awakened his grief at Garrow's death. He remembered Brom—

 _Eragon, this had better be important, or I'll—_

 _It's important. Get to the docks as soon as you can._

 _You owe me, little one,_ Saphira grumbled.

 _"_ Eragon, we can use magic to dry you off and walk back. I'll be fine. Besides, I only made you swear to try."

"Saphira's on her way."

Arya tilted her head, as if seeing him for the first time. "You didn't have to."

"You don't understand how much I did."

"Why? Why did you persist? You didn't have to keep going, especially when-"

"Eka achí sem wiol ono," Eragon mumbled.. "Arya, I just wish..." He exhaled.

"You know as well as I that it can never be," she stated.

"I know, but you didn't even scry me. Why did you avoid me for so many years?"

Arya frowned. "I—" She stopped, considering her words carefully. "I just didn't want to dwell on what we can't have. I didn't want to hurt you."

Eragon, in an accusing tone, shouted, "Well you did! What did you think? That I wouldn't want to see you?" Teardrops flowed down to his chin, dripping, before he wiped them off. "I missed you."

"I did too, bu—"

Before his courage failed him, he pulled Arya into an embrace, connecting his lips with hers. Exhilaration rose within him as he put more pressure on her lips, and she reciprocated the action. Then she pulled away.

For five long seconds, the two of them stared, but Arya pulled away, running in the opposite direction, and Fírnen chased after her.

 _Little one,_ comforted Saphira, landing behind Eragon.

 _What did I do wrong?_

Saphira, nudging him with her muzzle, comforted, _Nothing, little one. Nothing at all._

* * *

Arya laid in her bed, staring at the ceiling, eyes tracing the bark of the wood.

 _You shouldn't have run,_ chided Fírnen, his emerald-green head poking in from the balcony.

 _I know._

 _So why did you?_

 _I don't know!_

Fírnen snorted. _You should at least apologize._

 _No, it wouldn't be right. It's better to break it off now. It can't go anywhere, anyway._

 _You know that isn't true._

Arya refused to acknowledge the statement.


	9. IX

**The plot thickens. Also, I don't own Inheritance Cycle. I know; I didn't put the disclaimer last time. Did anybody care? No. It's the Internet.**

 _ **IX**_

Part of Ninth Survivor was grateful for his life, but the other part of him just wished the humans would kill him now.

It had been many moons since he freed the chickens, but he'd traded his freedom for theirs.

They'd handed him food, but he'd throw it up. He needed flesh, and without it, he'd starve.

Occasionally a human would attempt communications from the other side of the bars. He tried responding, but the human fled upon hearing the hiss and clicks of the Ra'zac's language.

One day a woman, followed by an animal—probably another chicken— entered the room. She handed him a plate full of flesh. It tasted similar to human, but still distinct.

 _"What is this?"_

 _Pork,_ said a voice, too deep to be the woman's.

Ninth looked at the creature in awe. _"Are you a chicken?"_

 _Hardly. I am a werecat._

 _"You aren't the human's slave?"_

The werecat tilted his head, regarding the Ra'zac as if for the first time.

 _I follow her of my own accord. What is your name?_

 _"Survivor. Ninth is my rank. And you?"_

 _Rank? I know of no such thing._

Survivor flinched, finding the concept of not having a rank unfathomable. _"What about your name?"_

 _I go by many things, but you may call me Solembum. Now tell me, Survivor, where are the eggs?_ He flinched again; addressing a Ra'zac without rank was informal. Instead of explaining a foreign culture to this "Solembum," Ninth Survivor settled for making a query.

 _"What eggs?"_

 _The Ra'zac eggs! Surely you must know!_

 _"I know not. I wish to find them and my brethren, so I may revive my species."_

 _I don't think that can happen._

 _"Why not?"_

 _Because,_ Solembum explained, _every living creature wants your kind dead_. The werecat turned around, flicking the tail, and exited the room. The human, before leaving, said words that Survivor knew he hadn't heard before, and yet he understood them. They meant something about languages and discernment, but he couldn't tell for sure. At the end of her sentence, the human closed the door, winking.

"Excuse me," the woman's voice called, followed by a masculine grunt. Survivor froze.

 _Did I just understand that?_

"If you don't let go of me, you will have to explain to Nasuada how your hand ended up in the Ra'zac's cell."

He noted the way she referred to him, implying he was some kind of animal.

He studied the scene ahead of him. A guard gripped the woman's arm, eyeing her with hunger. The woman returned the stare, her eyes cold, calculating. It was as if she were formulating every possible way to maim the guard in under three seconds. The guard grunted, and let her go. Solembum followed, hissing as he passed the guard.

Throughout his stay, no more water came, and he didn't see Solembum or the woman either. He had, however, extracted information from snippets of conversation. He'd learned that someone named Nasuada had placed a bounty on his kind. He also overheard, much to his dismay, that Survivor was the only known living Ra'zac, and the only known eggs were destroyed in a place called Dras-Leona.

A guard trudged over to Ninth's cell, his face pale, and looked into his face, shivering. "The warden says you're weak enough now for your execution. He can't give you a last meal, but do you have any other requests? Not that you could tell me. You're too stupid to understand. _"_

The human's words spited Ninth Survivor, but instead of scaring him away, he considered the offer.

 _"Tell me the story of this 'Galbatorix.'"_

The human's patches of fur above his eyes rose, but it seemed to regain his confidence, for it complied. After it finished its tale, Ninth reasoned the mostly likely location of a Ra'zac egg would be Doru Araeba.

"You had your wish; now it's time for the execution." The human pulled a ring, from which metal objects dangled. He sorted through the dangling items, before inserting one into the door, turning it. A click sounded, followed by the creak of the opening door.

However, Survivor did not plan on being executed, and so he dove forward at the human, sinking his beak into his face, savoring the taste of flesh. Not wasting the time to finish devouring his meal, the Ra'zac retrieved a the human's sword from its scabbard.

"It's escaping!" Three guards charged forth, and Survivor ducked behind a corner. Too weak to outrun them, he leapt out, diving for the flesh.

He felt the tip of his beak sink into a neck, simultaneously slashing wildly with his sword, which had been deflected. Too men leveled there swords towards Survivor, circling him on either side.

The Ra'zac rolled to the side, lashing out at a calf, and one of the guards fell. Ninth dug his claw into the mans neck, parrying blows from the remaining opponent. He studied his prey, noting how it favored it's right side.

The predator lifted his sword in a way that exposed his right side, forcing the enemy to strike using his left. The result was a slower swing, which Survivor exploited, dodging the blade and beheading his foe.

An obnoxious chiming rattled his eardrums, and he realized an alarm had been activated. Unfazed, Ninth studied his surroundings, stopping at a weakened portion of the wall. He grabbed a helmet from the nearest corpse, pounding at the partially-crumbled mortar.

The sound of footsteps on stone thundered behind him. _There must be at least twenty of them,_ he estimated. He had no idea if his breath worked, but he certainly needed it. The first stone budged. Then another. Chunks began to fly outward from the wall, and a few more hits would create a gap to crawl through.

The footsteps drew within range, then stopped. The sound of drawn blades rang throughout the hallway. Swirling upward, Ninth Survivor exhaled, stunning the soldiers. He kicked the wall, and a large chunk of rock flew, exposing a large field.

He'd escaped, but had no idea as to his whereabouts, and aside from the prison, there were no buildings. No civilization. Nothing. And it was daytime.

A nocturnal predator, starving in the daytime, pursued by dozens of blood-thirsty humans.

Ninth Survivor already missed his cell.


	10. X

**Here's where most people would thank the ten people who followed them, but seeing as I wrote like, sixteen chapters before I started uploading and have done so in bulk, I'll thank all zero of you. But when I finish uploading, I'll be uploading at roughly the rate I write, and I'll warn you guys that I tend to procrastinate if I get bored. Let's hope that doesn't happen, but if it does, you can spam me if you care. Otherwise, well, you don't care, so why are you here?**

 **Disclaimer: This isn't a disclaimer. Not really, but it was a nice paradox. No, I don't own this stuff, even though I wrote it. Legally, I don't even own my OC's. Also, doing this on iPhone is terribly buggy. I do not recommend it.**

 _ **X**_

Wind lashed out at Eragon, roaring in his ears. It hurt to ride Saphira this fast, but he couldn't slow down. He had to get to Arya and Fírnen before they left.

 _Please don't be late. Please don't be late. Please don't—_

 _Little one, if you repeat that one more time, I'll leave you fifty paces from the shore, and when you reach the shore, you'll still have to hike home._

 _Okay, okay, I'll stop. You could have just asked._

 _It wouldn't have been as satisfying,_ Saphira hummed.

A blur of tan and navy-blue, streaked across Eragon's view. Saphira slowed, surveyed the beach for Arya and her dragon, then dove down.

"Arya! Wait! Saphira—"

Sand filled his mouth as Saphira skidded, waiting for friction to overcome momentum.

Once the dust settled, Eragon spotted Arya strolling towards him. After he'd coughed the remainder of sand, he slid down the dragon's side, accidentally tackling Arya on the way down.

"Sorry," he mumbled, pushing himself off the ground. When standing, he offered Arya his hand, but she ignored him. Eragon sincerely hoped the disappointment didn't show on his face.

"What was so important that you had to crash into the beach to get to me for?"

"Where's Fírnen? He'll want to hear this as well."

 _Hear what?_

Eragon whirled around to see the green dragon land gracefully along the the drag-marks from Saphira's landing. Grinning, he announced, "Saphira laid an egg!"

Arya's eyes shot up in bewilderment. "Fírnen's work?"

 _I haven't mated with any other dragon,_ Saphira confirmed, shaking sand off her scales.

 _Where is it? May I see it?_ Fírnen craned his neck over Arya, as if trying to glimpse the egg.

"Aye, you may see it," Eragon said, turning to Saphira. He jogged to the sac hanging from the saddle, removing a turquoise egg roughly the size of his head. Cradling it in his arms, he walked over to Arya and Fírnen.

The four stared at the egg, the silence finally ending with Eragon, who looked up at the elf.

"Arya, Saphira and I have something we'd like to ask of you."

The queen looked up, expectant.

 _I wish for you to carry it as you did with me. While you may not have the freedom you used to, I would trust nobody else with this task. I want it to be bonded._

 _"_ I am honored, Saphira, but do you really trust me with your offspring?"

 _I am sure. It is as much Fírnen's as it is mine, but I cannot carry it between the races._

 _"_ Arya?"

She looked up from the egg into his eyes.

Sighing, Eragon said what is courage would allow. "Scry me, okay?"

She nodded, and Eragon handed over the egg. When secured in her arms, the elf recited the spell Eragon had used to store the Eldunarí.

"Goodbye again, Eragon."

Tears began to collect in the corners of his eyes, overflowing down the sides of his face. "I wish you could stay."

"I wish you could come."

Eragon grabbed her hand. "Be weary about the Ra'zac." The distance would be too great to protect her with wards, and he couldn't bear it if something happened to her.

"I am not one of your helpless women, Eragon, and I'll certainly be more weary than you were."

He stepped forward, but Arya didn't back away. He pulled her closer, whispering, "I'll miss you."

"Me too."

Eragon wasn't sure when it happened, but when he realized they were kissing, several emotions filled him, and among them was hope. He told himself it could work out. Somehow it would.

Arya stopped, drawing breath. "I'm sorry," she whispered, her forehead rested against Eragon's.

He kissed her again, though it lasted quite a bit longer than he'd intended. Unfortunately, they couldn't stand there forever, and Arya, as if acknowledging this, reluctantly stepped backwards, avoiding eye contact. Eragon watched Arya run to the ship, and with her, part of him.


	11. XI

**Disclaimer: I don't own the Inheritance Cycle, and I ran out of snarky things to say. I'd ask for reviews, but honestly, I can see the statistics of the people who kept reading to tell if they liked it, and I don't need reviews to say that. As ironic as it is, I'd actually like to hear if you didn't, and I'd like to know why.**

 _ **XI**_

Kurdka was a proud Urgalraga. Unfortunately, pride had proven to be his downfall.

He'd sparred for two or three rounds with the elf known as Blödhgarm, and had won each time. His confidence had built up enough for him to challenge the elf. He'd honestly believed that since he'd beaten Blödhgarm three times, he could take the elf at his best.

He'd never been more wrong.

Each duel ended in less than a second, and always in the same way: a sword at Kurdka's neck.

"Your weakness, Shur'tugal, is close quarters. I think it'd be best if you changed your weapon."

Kurdka, of course, denied it. And again the elf had bested him in seconds. Still he denied it. By the end of the day, the Urgal still had not managed to so much as lift his sword before being defeated.

"Fine. I'll give something else a try. But don't expect me to like it."

Kurdka had expected the teacher to dig through the armory for ages. However, he seemed to know what he searched for, because he emerged with a double-bladed sword seconds later.

"I believe this would serve you well."

Kurdka put his hands on the grip between the blades. Both sides weighed just the right amount, and he picked up the correct technique for using it without instruction.

Wielding this weapon seemed to be easier. In fact, he'd managed to last five seconds against Blödhgarm.

Since the double-bladed sword boasted a high ability to take on multiple adversaries, Kurdka now dueled with two opponents.

A male elf wielding an axe circled him to the right, and female elf with a sword and shield to the left. When one elf pretended to leave an opening, the other attacked the Urgal if he took it. Without playing aggressively, Kurdka could hold his own, but the problem was that he needed to _defeat_ his opponents.

The left elf bashed one of the blades with her shield, trying to bring the other side forward to leave a gap. Kurdka, however, used the momentum to twirl away, meeting the groove of the axe with his blade, flicking it out of his enemy's hands.

The trick to exploiting such moments differed from using a single blade. If he attacked the unarmed duelist, a sword would bludgeon his left side. Therefore the Urgal had to use the opening to quickly dispatch of his armed opponent. Unfortunately, the window to do so consisted of mere seconds.

He let the shield push him back to avoid jarring his shoulder and pivoted towards the incoming sword to deflect it, kicking at the gap the elf left. She jumped backwards to doge the foot.

The window had closed by now, and Kurdka decided to back off. The second he stepped back, an axe whirled in the space his head had just occupied, and he used his hips to swing at the attack. A clang confirmed that metal met metal, and the Urgal twirled to attack the left side of the enemy instead. A shield halted all momentum, staggering its user. Kurdka ducked and swung, aiming for the shins.

As the elf fell, she directed her sword at his skull, denied by the center of the weapon. However, the cold edge of an axe against his neck ended the duel.

"You have to keep moving," the axe wielder criticized. "The second you stop, you're dead."

"Yes, Master Upoh."

"Well fought, Shur'tugal," praised Blödhgarm. "However, I believe it's time for you to meditate."

The pupil bowed, turned to his left and exited through the marble pillars, trudging through an exit into the woods.

 _Kurdka, I know this bores you, but can you please keep your attention span long enough for me to learn the meditation?_

 _Amnur?_

 _Mmhmm?_

 _Don't you have friends to bug?_

 _Don't you have bugs to befriend?_

Kurdka smiled, sending warmth through the bond. Nothing matched exchanging banter with a dragon.


	12. XII

**This chapter will demonstrate a major point I am trying to convey in this novel. By the end of this, I want you, the reader, to question everything you ever thought was wrong. Also, MAJOR plot developement. This is why it was absolutely necessary to get Arya to Alalëa. Saphira would have trusted nobody else, and then all the political drama that will show up could never take place. And no, I don't own the Inheritance Cycle.**

 _ **XII**_

 _"_ The tracks lead here, to that ditch. Also, the left prints indicate a limp. He's weak, but fueled by pain. _"_

Ninth Survivor unsheathed his battered sword, bloodstains covering the upper half, scratches and dirt removing any glint. The marching of his seekers vibrated the ground at constant intervals, and smoke from the fire-sticks burned his lungs.

Desperate, the Ra'zac pulled off his tattered and ripped cloak, stretching it over a particularly bulky patch of grass. He was hopelessly outnumbered, starving an injured. Adrenaline remained the sole factor keeping him conscious. Survivor's saliva glands has shriveled up a couple moons ago, and his tongue stuck to the back of his throat. The footsteps halted, and light flickered inside of the ditch.

The Ra'zac rolled out of it, singed by flames from thrown fire-sticks. Arrows whizzed overhead, and he rose between volleys, sidestepping the next. A stray arrow targeted his head, but he deflected it with his sword. He veiled the assailants in his breathe, swerving around to flank them. Before the dazed soldiers reacted, Ninth beheaded two of them, biting a third in the side of the neck.

Blood gushed within his beak, and the predator swallowed, eager to revive his dry flesh. He scraped the remainder from his worm-like tongue, displeased with the taste, for it mimicked rusted iron.

He leapt back to avoid an assortment of swung weapons, stepping to the right while swinging his sword, meeting a shield. He heard a snap, followed by the clatter of metal hitting ground. He glanced at the bladeless hilt in his grasp, hissed and chucked it at the head of the nearest human. He pivoted to the left, wincing at the pressure on his left leg. He collapsed and rolled away from the likely strike of an enemy, and he landed on his back.

The tip of a sword stung his neck, and a foot on his stomach kept him down. He yanked the sword from the human's grip, shrieking at the gashes it left in his palms where his exoskeleton was weakest, replaced grippy organic material. The soldier staggered forward, and the Ra'zac tore out the pectoralis major from his victim's chest.

Survivor pointed the tip of the sword up, impaling his foe's neck as it collapsed, though the contact with the hilt stung. Desperate, he blew on the oncoming humans, dazing them. He cast the blade ahead of him, and a scream aroused the humans.

However, Ninth had managed to push the corpse off of him and rise to his talons, leaping at the nearest soldier by instinct. To the Ra'zac's surprise, blades bounced harmlessly off his exoskeleton. _Mine exoskeleton must've hardened,_ he decided, tearing blindly at the mass of flesh in front of his beak.

His harsh breathing allowed openings in the mob of attackers, which he took without consideration, using the curved point of his beak as a weapon. Eventually the last of the humans fell, and he feasted on the carcasses until his stomach filled its capacity, making sure to avoid the feces inside the intestines.

Blood oozed from various nicks in his body, and parts of his exoskeleton had been cracked. His blood was a darker shade of gray than that of his prey.

Ninth Survivor heard movement, or rather the rustling it caused, behind him. He slowly turned around to face it, his body screaming in protest. A fox stared up into his eyes, a human arm in hand, growling. He understood what it communicated, though it wasn't quite like when a human spoke. Rather, the rumbling from its mouth conveyed a warning, defined by fear. He wondered if it'd understand him.

 _"Relax, scavenger, for I mean no harm."_

The animal's fear lessened, replaced by relief and suspicion. Wincing, for even the movement from speaking sparked pain, he continued, _"I am hurt, and need shelter. Do you know of a safe place?"_

It studied him for two seconds, spit out the bones of the arm, and turned away, walking in the opposite direction. Survivor sighed, disappointed, but the fox stopped, turning its head to glance back at him, as if beckoning for him to follow.

Grunting, Survivor rose, limping behind the fox. They continued for a couple more yards before stopping. The fox turned to the opening of a den, pawing at it twice before leaping in. The scavenger revealed its head, gazing expectantly at him. He just shook his head.

" _It's not wide enough."_

The wolf met his eyes in understanding, then leapt out of the den. It sniffed around the dirt for a few minutes, but tipped when Survivor began to leave, so he just sat down. Eventually it froze over a particular spot, and scratched at the ground. Then it looked to the Ra'zac, then to the patch of dirt, bobbing its head in that direction.

Survivor tilted his head, confused. The creature sneezed, then repeated the process. _Does it want me to make a den?_

He stood and stumbled towards the fox, which stepped aside when he arrived. The Ra'zac began to dig, and the animal darted to its den.

He dug an opening, just wide enough to him to slip through, and carved out a chamber twice his size. Ninth's limbs protested, but he continued, knowing discomfort was better than death. He started on another opening, but passed out from the pain before completion.

 _A tall, pointy-eared human sat on a large, flying reptile, clutching a dark gray orb. Long black fur flapped behind its head, dangling in the wind. A field gazed up at them, and the human pointed to it. The giant, scaly beast dove downward, pulling up at the last second to land._

The den rumbled, and loose dirt fell from the ceiling. Survivor glanced back at the entrance, and rattled his tongue against his upper beak, for rubble sealed him inside. He returned to the incomplete exit, dirt sliding from his head. He punched the wall, puncturing it. His skin burned, but sunlight was better than suffocating. Something gripped his fist, and he shrieked at the pressure on his wounds.

* * *

A lot had happened since Arya's departure from Eragon. A Nïdwhal had crashed through the hull of her ship, and she had barely managed to retrieve the eggs and mount Fírnen before it sunk. The pair had managed to escape, but the crew didn't fare as well. They managed to reach the shore, where they rested, and had flown over the Spine. They had stopped to rest in the plains, when the ground began to cave in. A black, maimed hand poked through, and she managed to pull its owner out.

Out of all the surprises in her journey, the only one that managed to faze her was the fact that the life she just saved belonged to a Ra'zac. Naturally, she'd pressed the tip for her sword to its Adam's apple the second she'd found out. Now here she was, negotiating with a beast.

" _Don't kill me!"_ it pleaded. Her jaw dropped at its words, for they were spoken in the Ancient Language.

"I don't plan to," she told it, using the same tongue. "Yet. You're going to give me information first."

" _I told you humans already! I know nothing! Have you not tortured me enough?"_

It took Arya a moment to decipher its pleas, for the creature seemed to struggle with pronouncing consonants, particularly it's b's and m's. "What you fail to realize is that I'm no human; I'm an elf," she began, stopping when she saw its confused expression. "If you don't know what an elf is, you are truly ignorant."

" _I've heard of your kind. The humans say one of you was found dead, the marrow sucked from their bones."_

Arya froze. If the news had reached a Ra'zac...

 _Do you reckon the Council knows?_ Fírnen voiced.

 _I don't see how they wouldn't_ , she replied.

" _I see that which relieves me troubles you, elf."_

She pressed her sword against his neck, realizing she'd lowered it slightly when speaking with Fírnen. It opened the Ra'zac to escape, and she'd have been dead had it exploited the opportunity. Her rage swelled at her weakness. "Do not speak unless addressed!"

 _"I see your anger,"_ it clicked. " _You are hurt by the loss of one of your own, aye?"_

Arya remained silent, but she felt herself tremble with emotion.

" _I can see your loss, the loss of kin. Tell me, who is it that died?"_

 _"_ Do not act as though you know how I feel!"

" _You assume only you have troubles? Your kind has killed my kin, committing genocide out of fear."_

 _"_ Your kind lays waste to life. Mine seeks justice. You are a murderer."

" _Nay, Rider. We Ra'zac eat to survive. And you? You kill when you don't have to. I'm a survivor. You are a murderer."_

Arya couldn't find reason to contradict his claim. She'd been raised to hate the Ra'zac, to believe them evil. It justified killing them, and if she accepted this one's words... It'd make her wrong, immoral. Could she really accept that?

" _You loosen your sword again, elf. I could kill you, but I won't. I shall not succumb to the immorality you have. Your dragon would likely kill me, but you most certainly will. So go ahead, murderer. Take an innocent life; it never troubled you before."_

The Ra'zac spoke with no venom or spite, but from what he truly believed. The Ancient Language made him speak the meaning as it was, as he truly felt. And the fact that her kind had killed his family should make his words seethe with anger, but it didn't. Could the Ra'zac be good? Could the races have been wrong for so long? Arya told herself that wasn't possible, that she should kill this beast. And yet...

"You may go," she said, sheathing _Tamerlein_. She approached her dragon, hoisting herself up to the saddle. Her foot slipped on the scales, kicking a sac to the ground. The cover fell open, and Saphira's egg tumbled out. Before Arya could tell the Ra'zac not to touch it, the creature collected the egg and offered it to her. Crunching noises radiated from the cracking shell. Pieces of the egg fell from the Ra'zac's arms, revealing a turquoise baby dragon.

 _I think_ , Fírnen mused, _you'll have to come with us._


	13. XIII

**Blaugh, blaugh, blaugh, disclaimer stuff.**

 _ **XIII**_

Eragon retrieved a wooden bowl from the cupboard under his dresser, pouring water into it from a silver pitcher. He conjured an imagine of Thorn within his mind.

Pines surrounded the dragon, sprouting from mountaintops. A frozen waterfall stood attached to a thick sheet of ice, and Murtagh flew Thorn amongst a developing blizzard.

 _Where are you?_

 _"_ Nice place you've got here," someone chirped. The feminine voice, combined with the uncanny ability to appear behind him, could only indicate one person.

"Angela?!"

"Who else could it be?"

"But—Where did—How—" he groaned. "How did you _get here_?"

The herbalist just laughed. "The Western Sea isn't the only way to get to Alalëa. That reminds me of the time the wall stood between me and a cage."

"A wall? Wh—? Cage?"

Eragon saw her teeth glitter when she grinned. "Let's just say it held something I wanted."

"Did you ever get that... Thing?"

"Of course!"

"What about the wall?"

The herbalist sighed. "Isn't it obvious?"

Eragon resisted the urge to shout at her. "Nay, it really isn't."

"I walked around it!"

"Okay, forget about the cage—"

"And the wall," she corrected him.

"And the wall. Why are you here?"

"Well you see, it all started—"

Eragon cut her off, tired of Angela's vague remarks. "Just get to the point."

"Okay then, grumpy. I just wanted to warn you that the one who fled went north of Algaësia. Also, you should check on Arya. She's gotten herself into quite a mess that one."

Excitement renewed interest in the confusing conversation. "Arya? Where is she? Is she alright?"

The herbalist flicked her palm towards Eragon. "That's for you to discover. Now, where is Théraen?"

"How did you—? Ah, forget it. She's most likely in the new Vault. Do you need me to lead you there?"

"Nay. I know the way." Knowing Angela, Eragon didn't question it.

* * *

Théraen ran her palms over the warm, smooth Eldunarí of Oromis.

"Théraen?" a voice called. Initially, the dwarf had thought Oromis opened his consciousness, but recognized the voice as someone else's, whipping herself around.

 _"Emily_? I haven't seen you since—"

"Do not speak of such things openly. There are those nearby that I do not wish to know more than needed. Also, I go by 'Angela' now."

Théraen raised both eyebrows, unable to lift just one, but her old friend just shrugged. She'd expected nothing less; Emily—no, Angela had perfected the art of being cryptic. "Why have you come? Surely it isn't to share a cup of tea."

"I wish it were. I finally perfected my own brew. Nay, I have come to warn you. There is something present here that even Eragon cannot resist. I can't linger here, and you've the closest strength to me of anyone else. If the time comes, utilize the Eldunarí, for the danger here is stronger than even I am." The dwarf tilted her head, but didn't press the herbalist, knowing she wouldn't get any answers if she did.

 _"_ Why did you come all the way here to say that? You could've scried me."

Angela deadpanned, "People would have much different conversations if they knew how insecure scrying was."

"Is that how you know all the things you do?" Rider wondered.

"Well, I suppose it's a way to learn."

The dwarf scoffed. Asking Angela a question just left you with more unanswered ones.

"It's been nice catching up, but now I must leave. There are other things that require my attention."

"Where will you go?"

"Where doesn't matter as much as when, but I'll be around."

The dwarf rolled her eyes. "It's nice to see you being so specific."

The statement seemed to project enjoyment onto Angela's face, and the herbalist chirped, "I personally thought so. I'm glad you appreciated it!" As her friend exited the room, Théraen shook her head. Centuries had passed since Angela first met the dwarf, and much like her appearance, she hadn't changed at all.

"Théraen?"

Straightening her posture, she focused her eyes on the form in front of her. "Aye, Master?"

His wrist flicked towards her, dismissing the title. "Please, I don't come to you as a teacher. I do have questions, though."

"What is it you wish to know?" If the questions didn't relate to her training, the elder didn't know what could interest the Rider.

"If Orik didn't have any kin until Hrothgar took him in, why is it Arya told me you're his great aunt?"

Was this really what troubled him? "The relation is adoptive."

"Hm..." The sight of him rubbing his hairless chin amused her. "Hrothgar was over two hundred years..."

"Young man," she scolded, "you should tread lightly if you wish to inquire of my age." His eyes, widening, displayed fear.

"N-nay," he choked, "it's not that. It's just... Hrothgar was anc— That's not what I meant to say." He stopped speaking, and Théraen wondered if he would ever get to the point. "Look, do not take this the wrong way. I mean no disrespect, but how are you... How..." He groaned.

She raised her eyebrows at him. "How am I still alive?"

The man nodded, his face pale, but he seemed relieved. Théraen chuckled inwardly. "I do not know. My mother left after my conception. Em—Angela acted as somewhat of a mother to me."

She noted the suspicion crossing his face. "Angela once implied her age was much greater than her appearance would suggest. Do you think she's involved?"

Théraen contemplated the suggestion. She'd considered it before, as Angela had trained her in magic. She had an idea regarding the herbalist's identity, but it's been somewhat of an unspoken agreement between the two magicians not to voice it. Silence enveloped the room, until she finally said, "I have my suspicions, but I think I will keep them to myself."

"Thank you for your time." He fidgeted for a moment, before adding, "One more thing, before I leave. Angela implied Arya got into some sort of danger. I tried scrying her in Ellesméra, but her room lacked any signs of recent use."

She contorted her face in concern. Arya should have reached Ellesméra days ago, even if there were complications. "Nay, sadly, I do not. Perhaps you should contact someone else from Algaësia. The delay is most unusual, especially for Arya."

The Head-Rider's Adam's apple bobbed, and he nodded. Théraen desperately wanted to comfort him, but she didn't, deciding it'd be in appropriate. His vast concern accumulated in the atmosphere, increasing her own. "Eragon," she addressed, trying to weave softness into her voice, "have you scried Arya specifically?"

He nodded again, so she continued. "What did you see?"

"Nothing," he croaked. "I think she's warded herself against it." A solemn mood permeated the room. Although neither of the Riders were willing to voice it, both knew the elf was probably dead. The dwarf felt a pressure behind her eyes, but she didn't release it, for Eragon already had.

 _At least one of us has to appear strong_ , she reasoned. "Do you need me or the elves to help with training today?"

Sniffing, he replied, "Nay, for there wouldn't be reason."

She recognized his denial, but dared not denounce it, lest she let go of her own. "I'm sure Arya is alive. She can take care of herself." The words were meant to comfort herself as much as Eragon. Although the elf had been her superior, there was a kinship between them. Arya felt like a daughter to Théraen, and she knew the elf regarded her as somewhat of a mother figure.

"Come on," her instructor announced. "It's time to start the day."

* * *

Jurgenurl curved upward towards Amnur's underside, the other dragon's belly exposed when gaining height. Halfway to reaching his destination, Jurgenurl ceased, flapping his wings, nearly perpendicular to the ground, for sorrow pooled amongst his emotions.

Amnur, apparently noting his distress, asked, _Why have you stopped?_

The white dragon replied, sharing what he felt, as well as a hint of gratitude, for the other hadn't exploited the moment of weakness.

 _Did you feel it too?_ The one with blue scales glided to their level from her observation perch, a particularly tall tree standing nearby.

In attempted confirmation, Jurgenurl sent an image to the blue-scales of a herd of sheep. A lamb separated from the rest, and a shepherd tried in vain to find it.

 _Young one, pictures will not tell me what words will._

He struggled to find the words to explain, snorting at his difficulty. He finally found one, pleased at his triumph. _Sorrow._

 _Indeed. Try to reach out with your mind to the partner-of-your-heart. Only the greatest distances can separate you from your bonded one._

 _Aye, Ebrithil,_ Amnur chimed. Jurgenurl just grunted.

The white dragon pulled from memory the feeling of his bonded one's consciousness, and sought it within him. Upon finding it, he sent grief, followed by subtle confusion, an emotional question mark.

The old one didn't use words this time, but instead shared a memory. The partner-of-the-blue-scales spoke of the pointy-eared teacher, and also questioned the old one. Defensiveness flared; who was he to interrogate her? His partner spoke soothingly, putting his anger to rest.

The one-who-asked-the-questions wasn't able to contact the other teacher, and the old-friend-herbalist, whom Jurgenurl knew from the saddle-sitter's memories, had warned of her being in danger. While the white dragon did not see the significance of the lack of contact, the partner seemed to think it indicated death.

The bipedal master seemed overly concerned, even considering how much the point-ears mattered. However, the visions were interrupted by the roaring of the blue-scales. The trees trembled in fear, for even the giants among them could not contest the might of an angered dragon. Jurgenurl wondered what agonized his master so, and he conveyed his curiousity.

The friend-whose-scales-matched-the-sun stared at the blue-scales, though seemed more distant. Jurgenurl reasoned he still remained connected to the furry warrior. He wanted to touch their minds to communicate, but he recalled how the blue-scales had said not to. Apparently it wasn't proper without consent.

He tried to figure out why the news upset her so, but the more he tugged at the answer within his mind, the less he could remember. Then he regarded the older dragon's eyes, which bore the pain of a bear who lost a cub, but could not avenge it, and the pain of losing something foreign to the dragon race, for dragons were monogamous.

Jurgenurl had just discovered what his masters held most dear. The green and blue one weren't just mates; they had bonded in a way he could never understand. And he thought he knew why. The bipedal masters must have been bonded in some way, which explained the concern of the blue-scales' person. But could his empathy for his partner truly be so powerful?

He had never felt so intimately connected to Théraen before, but did he enjoy it?

He pictured a pebble settled on gravel, and the stone shattered, becoming one with the dust.

A familiar presence tingled within his thoughts, and another vision appeared. Two halves of a rock, one white and black, had been laid on either side of a stream, their fractured and jagged edges incomplete. They trembled, hovered from the ground and collided in midair, and the jagged edges met.

 _We are each a single broken stone_ , Théraen clarified, _but together we are whole._ To Jurgenurl's pleasure, she didn't withdraw, but rather kept the link open.

Saphira, moaning from unseen injuries, rushed past him, the wind she displaced striking his jaw.

 _I think_ , commented his other half, _it'd be best for you to return._ Flanked by the one-whose-scales-matched-the-sun, he complied.


	14. XIV

**We're much caught up to where I am. The updates will be much slower starting from now, as I actually have to write it, and as I've mentioned before, I tend to procrastinate.**

 ** _XIV_**

Up until a week ago, Arya would have used the scenario of befriending a Ra'zac to describe the probability of Nasuada commiting treason. Now, here she was, having befriended a Ra'zac, which most people would, in fact, consider treason.

It was, by far, the second most difficult way to travel that anyone had ever experienced. Only Eragon lugging her dying body across a continent, pursued by an army of Kull, on top of being the most wanted criminal topped it. Of course, if either she or the Ra'zac were exposed, even Eragon couldn't have a harder time.

They'd overcome some difficulties, Ninth Survivor's diet being one of them to an extent. Pig flesh remained a relatively humane alternative, but pigs didn't roam wild, and the nearest city was the capital of the Empire, which, for obvious reasons, could not be approached.

Instead the pair traveled to Bullridge, a small farming city. During his reign, Galbatorix had reinforced it with a garrison. Even if it still was, Arya would disguise herself amongst the outskirts of the city, irrelevant to any soldiers. Since neither of them possessed any currency, supplies had to be stolen from the market in the city's core.

As a Ra'zac, Survivor had been the best candidate. His breath would allow him to escape if caught, and nature, combined with experience, had bred his kind into the perfect stalker, more than Arya could say for herself.

Arya left it up to Fírnen to hunt pigs from the nearby farmers which surrounded the city, leaving her to babysit the baby dragon. This proved incredibly harder than she'd anticipated, as it rebelled against anyone but its Rider. After outgrowing the leftover room on the saddle, the hatchling required transportation that only Fírnen's grip could provide.

This made for especially awkward landings, as the green dragon had to drop his offspring a short distance and wait for it to scurry out from underneath him. Whoever demounted Fírnen first had the task of chasing after it, which proved especially hard. While it couldn't fly, the young reptile could glide for short spurts from inclined surfaces, and it received a major head start during landings.

The unnamed dragon currently chased after a beetle. While the insect scurried at its top speed, its attacker continued at a leisurely stroll. Eventually the bug reached a stone, and the dragon growled. The dragon pounced on its target, talons forming a prison. Gazing down, the hatchling lifted its claws, and the beetle flew upward, landing on its snout. The young reptile stared at the escapee, cross-eyed as it looked up to meet the contact, and the predator snapped. Startled, the beetle took off, using the muzzle as a runway. The dragon whined, plopping its head on the ground in defeat.

Smiling, Arya approached and sat next to it, stroking the top of its head. It snored softly, and for a moment the elf felt excitement about telling Eragon. Then she realized he'd probably hate her for it, no matter how good her intentions had been. At least she had an excuse to avoid scrying him. She didn't want to waste her energy holding water in place, and she didn't have a bowl to put it in.

When they reached the Ramr River, however, she could try. Then again, both she and Survivor suffered from hydrophobia, so she might not get the chance.

She drew Tamerlein when two swine carcasses hit the ground, bones crunching from the impact.

 _I'm not letting you put this off,_ Fírnen growled.

 _Do you see any water anywhere? I'm unrested and it's nighttime; I cannot hold the water in place long enough._

 _Pour it into my wing_.

Arya stood firm, arms crossed. _No._

 _They have a right to know. Keeping it from them is wrong. If you don't put water into my wing, I will drag you to the Ramr myself, and an angry dragon is worse than drowning._

The elf sighed, muttering the incantation to lift the moisture from the ground, lifting it to the dragon's cupped wing. "Draumr kopa."

* * *

"Eragon, wake up!"

"Wh—?" Alert, Eragon studied his surroundings, pulling Brisingr from its scabbard beside his bed. "Show yourself!"

"I'm in the mirror, Eragon."

"Arya?! You—You're alive! Saphira, get up! She's alive!" He dropped his sword, inflicted with so many emotions he couldn't tell what he felt.

"Of course I am!"

"Well, it's just that Angela said you were in danger, and we couldn't scry you."

"Wait, you saw Angela? How did—"

 _You really think the herbalist would tell him?_

 _"_ Hello, Saphira. Listen, I have some news regarding your egg—"

 _Is it safe?_ she blurted, her eagerness blatant.

"It hatched."

Eragon experienced an odd mixture of excitement and fear. If the spells to ensure the egg hatched correctly weren't placed... "To whom?"

"Eragon, Saphira, do you trust me?"

" _Aye_ ," they chirped in unison.

"And you still would, no matter what I did?"

"Arya, it's you! Why wouldn't we?" Eragon started to feel hurt. After all they'd gone through, what could possibly change things?

"The egg hatched to a Ra'zac."

"YOU LET A RA'ZAC TOUCH THE EGG?!"

 _Where is the hatchling?_

 _"_ It's curled up behind me, but it'll wander off if I wake it up. Please, you must understand—"

"Arya, why? After all we've been through, how could you do this to me?"

"Please," she whispered. "Listen." Eragon couldn't believe her. _How can she expect me to listen?_

 _"Queen Arya? Who is—"_

 _"_ You taught him to speak in the Ancient Language?!"

 _"I_ did not teach him. He learned it from somewhere, but he says he doesn't know. It's not like he can lie to me!"

"We trusted you! Saphira's egg! You let that—that _fiend_ hatch it?"

 _"I am no fiend. I am a sentient being. You know my kind as evil, but we do what we must to survive."_

"You murdered my uncle! You killed my father!" Eragon knew it was a different Ra'zac, but he didn't care. They were all beasts to him.

"Eragon, he's different."

"How long have you been traveling with it? What do you do, feed it children?!"

"No! He can eat pig flesh!"

This enraged him further. How could she expect that to be an excuse?

 _Excuse me, Arya, but how did this happen? The Ra'zac are not part of the Oath._

 _"_ I believe he bonded much like Eragon the First did."

"I can't believe you! How could you betray me to _that_? After all we've been through!"

 _"I am not a thing, I did not slaughter your family and she did not betray you! You think your kind righteous? You've committed genocide against my people! Humans and elves murdered everyone I ever loved! Yet here I am, with the Elven Queen, as an ally!"_

 _Little one, he speaks the truth. He cannot lie, for he speaks in the Ancient Language. You got over the Urgals._

 _"_ How can you side with him? I loved all of you, and yet you've betrayed me!"

Arya snapped back. "You are only betrayed by your own ignorance. If you cannot see past it, then perhaps you are not the man I thought you were."

"How can you say that?" Tears dripped town his cheek.

"Eragon," she pleaded, continuing with the one thing that could potentially calm him. "Eka dunei ono."

He hesitated at the words. For her to say it directly to him was large on its own, but in the Ancient Language... He sighed. "I'm sorry... Just... Let me think. It's a lot to take in."

He saw her nod. "Arya... What have you gotten yourself into? What'll happen when your people find out?"

The elf pursed her lips. "I don't know," she admitted. "I might be tried for treason."

"Treason?! One Ra'zac is certainly not worth your own life! He'll be dead anyway!"

"Perhaps," she considered. "But what of the hatchling?" Eragon wanted to object, but he couldn't, and the image of Arya faded.

"Saphira, eat while you can. We're going back."

 _But we can't fly across the Western Sea!_

"Angela said there's another way. What if there's a land bridge?"

 _Should we risk it?_

"I don't see another way."

 _North or south?_

Remembering the herbalist's words, he decided to go north.

* * *

Eragon stuffed so many loaves of bread into the bag, it bulged, rolling off his back, the rope handles cutting into his palm. Unlit furnaces lined the stone walls, and blank slates covered the floor. Lots and pans hung above tubs of water, and quartz tabletops supported by cabinets centered the room, cutting boards resting on top of them.

 _How will I bring this to Saphira? If only there were some other way..._

"Going somewhere?"

Eragon bounced, gasped and half-drew Brisingr from it's scabbard before he realized the voice belonged to Théraen. Still panting, he exclaimed, "Barzûl! Don't scare me like that! And what are you doing in the kitchen up so early?"

"If your body were as aged as mine, you'd know that you'd have to wake up earlier than an hour after sunrise to avoid me."

He slouched. Théraen seemed to have the effect of addressing him as a whippersnapper without actually doing so. At least she hadn't read him like she normally would.

"Also, if you plan on reaching Arya and the Ra'zac, you'd best store food supplies like you did the Eldunarí. An extra hundred poundss will slow her down, and even more so for any other dragon."

He cursed, realizing she must have heard his shouting. "Wait, what do you mean 'other dragon'?"

The dwarf smirked. "If you're half as impulsive as Glaedr and Saphira tell me you are, you'll need my magical expertise to get you out of trouble."

"I'm not impulsive!"

Saphira snorted. _Little one, impulsive is literally in the middle of your True Name._

"Okay, so you have a point! Théraen, I'd be honored to have you with me, even though I know you'd come regardless. Pack some provisions and wake Jurgenurl."

"Already done. I also left a note attached to Kurdka's door saying we're out on a political mission. Blödhgarm and Glaedr can continue his training."

Eragon hated lying to Kurdka, but it was necessary. You couldn't tell an Urgal you were going to battle your way to saving your mate and expect him or her to stay, and if any of his kind saw him, there would be bloodshed—even from his own tribe.

"Why do you really want to come? I know how much Arya means to you, but are you sure you're physically up to this?"

"Do not worry about me; I am not so helpless as you might think."

Eragon finally agreed. Besides, he'd be glad to learn from the dwarf along the way. He'd tried to get into her mind in a test, and woke up a day later with a three-day migraine.

"And, Master, you'll want to dress in layers. You wouldn't know from this mild weather, but it's winter, and it gets colder as one travels further north or south."

"Aye, and regardless where we approach from, we'll need to face the Spine. If you have any charged gems, keep them. We will need them to sustain heat."

The dwarf frowned. "I'll help you pack. There are things you won't have prepared for." Eragon wondered where she knew all this from, but the time for questions did not fit into the day's schedule.


	15. XV

**Not the best, but unlike the disclaimer spam, it's more than bearable.**

 **Speaking of disclaimer spam, no, I don't own IC.**

Eka eddyr aí Shur'tugal: (Elvish) "I am a Dragon Rider." (lit. "I am a Rider.") EH-kuh ed-DEER EYE sure-TOO-gull (I may have butchered the pronunciation.)

Eka elrun ono: (Elvish) "I thank you." (lit. "I thank you.") EH-kuh EL-run OH-noh

 ** _XV_**

Murtagh shivered, vapor excreted from his mouth in short bursts. The blizzard acted as a white blindfold. The sea of ice stung his skin, wetting his garments, the wind chilling him further.

The occasional spell revived feeling in his body, but the Rider couldn't maintain his magic; it had proved too tiring. Instead he warded himself and Thorn for brief periods, allowing them to cough the melting slush from their lungs.

Despite there being water, solid or not, literally all around the pair, the water supply had run short, and dehydration tortured them.

 _Why didn't we leave the Spine in autumn?_ Murtagh second-guessed.

 _You know why,_ Thorn said.

Murtagh sighed inwardly, for physically doing so required too much energy. He'd needed to see Palancar Valley. He knew that seeing it wouldn't change things, but part of him needed to go. Eragon was blessed with his life, and Murtagh had been cursed with his. He tried to scoff, but ice shards pelted his mouth. He was pretty certain his True Name before helping Nasuada had meant, "It sucks to be Murtagh." He got lucky enough for it to change so he could be freed from Galbatorix. Now his True Name probably meant, "It _really_ sucks to be Murtagh."

Another reason they'd put off leaving Algaësia for so long was that, while he knew nothing could ever work out between he and Nasuada, he just couldn't bring himself to leave. Eventually Murtagh admitted to himself that leaving would never get any easier—except if they waited three months for spring.

It was too late to turn back now; Thorn's wings strained with the effort, and both Murtagh and his dragon should have passed out days ago. Still they continued, starving and dehydrated, the only water being from the shards of ice that tore through flesh whenever one of them opened his mouth.

Thorn's wings trembled with the effort of staying straight. Murtagh would have paled if his face weren't pink. The dragon could no longer flap his wings, forced to glide to the surface, which probably consisted of steep mountaintops. The mighty reptile convulsed, and Murtagh felt him withdraw from his consciousness as Thorn plummeted to the ground, limp. The change in pressure triggered nausea, an inability to think in sentences greater than two words and an overwhelming fatigue. On the very last moment of consciousness, a large, black blur passed underneath, but before Murtagh could react, he phased into sleep.

* * *

 _Thorn! Where are— wait... Where are we?_ He studied the small cave around him. Light streaked from the entrance, which could easily have fit two of Shruikan. When his eyes finally adjusted, he saw Thorn's slumbering form and decided to let the dragon rest.

Murtagh trudged to the mouth of the cave and looked to a strange hill. It was oddly black, with spikes, and it seemed to be moving... He almost fainted again, realizing that a dragon slumbered there, not a hill. It dwarfed Shruikan, who was only a third as large as the present behemoth.

 _It must be ancient... How did it survive the Fall? Then again, that one Rider pair..._ Several emotions overwhelmed Murtagh, and he slumped to the cold ground. His arms wrapped around his legs, he sobbed, resting his forehead against his knees.

His stomach rumbled, but he didn't want to eat. He didn't feel like standing, either. In fact, he lacked the motivation to do anything at all; everything lost purpose.

 _Why am I here?_ he questioned. _My life has only brought pain to those I love._ It felt like an accusation, but against whom, Murtagh didn't know. Perhaps some deity listened, but he doubted it. _If any gods existed, why would they give us free will? Why trust us with a privilege so easy to abuse?_

Murtagh inhaled, his chest shaking the deeper his breaths progressed. Sometimes he wondered if the world would be better off without him. Past events certainly seemed to say so. He briefly snuffed, knowing that he couldn't leave Thorn behind.

A shadow covered the fugitive's surroundings, as if a cloud had passed under the sun. He looked up, but instead of finding a cloud, he'd found a scaly muzzle the size of Saphira when he'd first met Eragon.

A third party brushed aside Murtagh's mental barriers, showing Thorn falling. _It must have caught us,_ he realized.

"Eka elrun ono," he thanked. He wondered what it knew of the Riders, for its size indicated eons of age. "Eka eddyr aí Shur'tugal." To his astonishment, the dragon bowed.

* * *

Thorn rose, his muscles yearning to be stretched like a rubber band, his joints screaming to stay in place. Eventually, the yearning overcame the protest, but not completely, as a spike in pain cut his stretch short.

He surveyed his whereabouts, curious as to how he'd arrived. The other half lingered nearby; he could feel him. Somehow they had arrived in this cave, a shallow nostril in a mountainside.

He moved his limbs, forcing them to carry him forward. He collapsed, but rose to continue, every part of his body trembling. His front right shoulder seized, followed by the rest of the leg, but the red dragon remained unrelenting.

 _Saddler,_ he called.

 _Thorn!_ The companions reimbursed their connections with intimate linking. The dragon strained to continue, but his Rider told him to stop, lending his body instead.

It was an odd sensation, switching flesh. He felt his wings and tail still, but as soon as he noticed, his awareness of his reptilian body faded, replaced by momentary panic, then understanding. They had become one.

The pair revered the black dragon before them, partially surprised, partially accustomed. Both Murtagh and Thorn agreed to withhold information regarding their identities while informing the ancient being of Galbatorix's demise, and it worked, for a time. They recounted the tales of the Varden and how the Forsworn fell, mentioning the involvement of the other races and skipping over many of the details.

The elder requested more information on multiple occasions, skeptical when denied. Eventually its requests evolved into demands, and the welded minds panicked. They couldn't risk making it feel unsafe, and explaining their involvement in the war would accomplish that as much as not explaining it would.

Instead, they relayed earlier memories from Murtagh's life. It began with his traumatic childhood. A montage of tragedies cycled through: being thrown into a wall, watching his mother being beaten, being called worthless, a mistake, Zar'roc passing through his back... The scar tingled as the memories flowed like a river out to sea.

They reread the life like a novel, grieving anew for the leaving of a mother, rejoicing for the father figure Galbatorix and Tornac provided, angry at the realization at the former's madness, near insanity at the latter's death.

Eventually, like all stories, the tale of Murtagh and Thorn came to a close, and they awaited the ancient's response. Moments of inaction existed between each breath; Murtagh and Thorn realized that only their deep humanization kept them alive.

A war between morality and revenge waged on the being's face, and eventually, indecisive, it rotated a hundred and eight degrees, its wings catching the wind like sails. It landed, tucking its snout underneath its wing, its tail curling around itself.

Unwilling to linger while the black-scales made its decision, Thorn retreated from unison with Murtagh, fear providing incentive for his muscles to obey. His saddler mounted him outside the save, and they followed the setting sun.


	16. XVI

**Disclaimer: Inheritance Cycle is owned by Christopher Paloni. Assume all the information regarding me not owning stuff that prevents copyright infringement is true.**

Eldunarí: (Elvish; _pl._ Eldunarya) Dragon organ that can store its consciousness in a suspended state ( _lit._ "Heart of Hearts") El-doo-NAR-ee

Letta: (Elvish; _past_ Lettaí) to stop ( _lit._ "Stop") LET-tuh ( _past_ LET-taye)

 ** _XVI_**

Eragon stuffed so many loaves of bread into the bag, it bulged, rolling off his back, the rope handles cutting into his palm. Unlit furnaces lined the stone walls, and blank slates covered the floor. Lots and pans hung above tubs of water, and quartz tabletops supported by cabinets centered the room, cutting boards resting on top of them.

 _There's no way I'm getting this back to Saphira. If only there were some other way..._

"Going somewhere?"

Eragon bounced, gasped and half-drew Brisingr from it's scabbard before he realized the voice belonged to Théraen. Still panting, he exclaimed, "Barzûl. Don't scare me like that. What are you doing in the kitchen up so early?"

"If your body were as aged as mine, you'd know that you'd have to wake up earlier than an hour after sunrise to avoid me."

He slouched. Théraen seemed to have the effect of addressing him as a whippersnapper without actually doing so. At least she hadn't read him like she normally would.

"Also, if you planning on reaching Arya and the Ra'zac, you'd best store food supplies like you did the Eldunarí. An extra hundred poundss will slow her down, and even more so for any other dragon."

He cursed, realizing she must have heard his shouting. "Wait, what do you mean 'other dragon'?"

The dwarf smirked. "If you're half as impulsive as Glaedr and Saphira tell me you are, you'll need my magical expertise to get you out of trouble."

"I'm not impulsive!"

Saphira snorted. _Little one, impulsive is literally in the middle of your True Name._

"Okay, so you have a point! Théraen, I'd be honored to have you with me, even though I know you'd come regardless. Pack some provisions and wake Jurgenurl."

"Already done. I also left a note attached to Kurska's door saying we're out on a political mission. Blödhgarm and Glaedr can continue his training."

Eragon hated lying to Kurdka, but it was necessary. You couldn't tell an Urgal you were going to battle your way to saving your girlfriend and expect him or her to stay, and if any of his kind saw him, there would be bloodshed—even from his own tribe.

"Why do you really want to come? I know how much Arya means to you, but are you sure you're physically up to this?"

"Do not worry about me; I am not so helpless as you might think."

Eragon finally agreed. Besides, he'd be glad to learn from the dwarf along the way. He'd tried to get into her mind in a test, and woke up a day later with a three-day migraine.

"And, Master, you'll want to dress in layers. You wouldn't know from this mild weather, but it's winter, and it gets colder as one travels further north or south."

"Aye, and regardless where we approach from, we'll need to face the Spine. If you have any charged gems, keep them. We will need them to sustain heat."

The dwarf frowned. "I'll help you pack. There are things you won't have prepared for." Eragon wondered where she knew all this from, but the time for questions did not fit into the day's schedule.

* * *

Saphira decelerated, gliding down a shallow slope. Wind brushed the dragon's wings, making the ends and straightened to properly embrace the ground.

By comparison, the one-who-spoke-few-words contracted his muscles, tightening his posture. Contrary to the intent, the wings trembled more vigorously, battering the wind, which berated them in return, a declaration of war.

 _Young one,_ Saphira chided, _if you_ _seek to conquer the sky, the sky shall conquer you. Wind is tempered; do not anger it, and it shall serve you._

The white-scales' frustration flared at Saphira as he proceeded.

 _Stop trying; your efforts serve zero purpose. Flatten yourself out and let nature escort you to the earth._ She felt his exasperation build in strain. demanding a snap to release the pressure, but in response to a third party, mostly likely old one, he relaxed, leveled out his body and sliced through the air with his wings.

Satisfied, Saphira rerouted her attention to the one-for-whom-she'd-hatched, who knelt before a pile of garbage strewn about the center of a ruined village, weeping. Upon further examination, the blue dragon empathized with the partner-of-her-soul, for the mound contained ashen bones, not waste accumulated from two-legs.

"Ebrithil," addressed the old one. "Notice anything about the architecture?"

In response, her Rider examined the surrounding structures, which resembled Ellesméra, but more domestic, and definitely more worn. Mold eroded the fungi-infested wood. Boarded up windows, if still standing, covered up the interior of their buildings, but the caved-in roofs and walls didn't.

A flowerbed of weeds encircled a sickened tree, devoid of leaves like the village of life. Its branches, instead of pointing to the heavens, reached downwards, looming over the pile of bones, which Saphira realized must have belonged to the pointy-eared-two-legs. A stone resided within the dirt in front of the tree, etched with calligraphy, ensnared by vines.

Eragon's voice, while not as beautiful as the pointy-ears, resonated with magic, and Saphira hummed along. The plant life, unsoothed, resisted, receded two centimeters before sprouting two inches.

The old two-legs' face contorted with curiosity before widening with alarm. "Master Eragon! Stop!" Saphira and the white-scales twisted their necks in confusion, but the dwarf gave no effort to satisfy their queries. "Ebrithil, letta!"

Saphira delved deeper into her partner's consciousness. She embraced him in full, yet he still felt distant, and a foreign presence lingered closer. The dragon roared. _I cannot reach him! Something is overpowering his mind!_

The one called Théraen nodded, staring at the stone, expressionless. Seconds passed, and the old one shook her head. "I cannot cut it; it has wards to shield it from spells." She paced to Eragon, retrieving Brisingr. Saphira blinked twice, for her soul-splitter ignored the action.

The short two-legs marched to the expanding vines, corrected her stance and hacked at its limbs. It withered, shrieking, sucked in by the ground like noodles by the two-legs.

Eragon collapsed, but Saphira caught him with her talons, propped him against her side, and wrapped her wing around him, watching for threats. Mentally, she dared anyone foolish enough to challenge a dragon, especially one so fearsome as herself. The old one approached her, Brisingr in hand, wrapped in a blanket, and gently laid Brisingr down by the flat of its blade.

Thank you, Théraen-elda.

"I am honored, Brightscales. I know you may not want to give Eragon up, but when he awakens, tell me." Saphira huffed, surprised that a puny two-legs would demand something of a dragon. She did just save her bonded's life, however, so Saphira relented. "Thank you. You have honored me once more."

The one-who-spoke-few-words stomped to his Rider's side, his neck raised and head tilted, shutting his eyes. Saphira hummed, noting the other dragon's jealousy, interpreting it as a compliment. Naturally, she agreed; there was quite a lot to be jealous of.

* * *

Eragon's headache spiked with every mental, cutting off any thought processes. He opened his eyes, expecting the sky, but instead found Saphira regarding him with a motherly expression. He tried to greet the dragon, but only managed unintelligible slurs. He squatted, pushing up from his knees, his skull throbbing from movement.

 _THÉRAEN! ERAGON IS AWAKE!_

 _"_ You didn't... Have t-have to yell."

 _I DIDN'T LITTLE ONE! ARE YOU ALRIGHT?_

Théraen shouted something behind him, then softly said, "That should help."

"Aye, that it did. What attacked me?"

Saphira and Jurgenurl, instead of answering, looked to the dwarf. She sighed. "Evil lurks here, but as much as I would love to leave, I think the memorial stone shall provide answers."

Eragon hummed his agreement, dusted himself off and cautiously made his first step. When his head experienced a profound lack of pain, he continued at normal speed. The cracked stone tablet, its top in the form of a parabola, read in Elven calligraphy something about death and mourning, but due to the worn text and unknown dialect, Eragon found it difficult to translate. "Théraen, this must date back to before the elves left Alalëa. I can't ascertain its meaning."

"Aye, Ebrithil, you are correct. There are parts too aged to read, and words we cannot know, but I have managed some insight."

"Pray tell," he pressed.

"This is the Mourning Tree. It is dedicated to the suffering of the Elven race, expressing regret. Before you ask," the old dwarf predicted, "I know not of the reason, but I have more to say."

Eragon shut his mouth, nodding his head to request that Théraen continue.

"It speaks of a foreign race coming in ships, and it says that they lost something. Again," she stated, raising a hand, "I don't know anymore details. Now, judging from the circumstances, plagues destroyed this land, and the regret may have something to with this phenomenon you encountered."

Eragon scratched his missing beard. "You have yet to explain what attacked me."

"That is a bit more… Complicated. The vine attacked you."

"Like the Menoa Tree?"

Théraen's eyebrows shot up. "What did you do to get attacked by the Menoa Tree? Bah, I shouldn't be surprised, what with your rash tendencies. Nay, this is something else entirely, but who knows what?"

Eragon, still curious, had one more question—for the moment. "Oromis said that the elves left following a big mistake... Do you think that whatever this is has something to do with it?"

"Aye, it's possible. We must go. A great evil lingers here, and I do not wish to remain longer than need be."

Eragon rotated himself towards Saphira, but stopped when glimpsing the Mourning Tree. The branches, layered in green, now pointed upwards, as if hailing the heavens. "Théraen! Look!"

"Intriguing... Perhaps we shall consult with the elves or Eldunareya later; I'd most love to research this phenomenon." She hopped on her white dragon, nearly causing a fit. As soon as the upset began, Eragon witnessed the dwarf stroke her companion where the skull met his spine, just below the atlas.

Eragon kneeled, gathered _Brisingr_ , unwrapped the sword and sheathed it.

The strength of his and Saphira's bond allowed the Rider to approach his dragon backwards, only facing forward to mount. He secured the straps without notice; the motions were branded into his muscle memory.

As Saphira abandoned the ground, Eragon reminisced over his days with Garrow and Roran, wondering how he'd come so far, and if that was a good thing. He wondered how Roran and Katrina were doing; it had been some time since he'd scried them. Murtagh was a whole different matter, and as guilty as it made him feel, Eragon was actually glad the red Rider abstained from the land, for if he chose to visit Nasuada, he'd be executed for crimes against humanity. No matter how he and Nasuada felt about each other, there was just no way of keeping Murtagh from the people, and the people truly held Nasuada's heart.

He also wondered about Elva. When the war ended, Eragon had hoped to bury his sins with healing, allowing her to finally be a child, but when Elva declined, the notion broke entirely. His ignorance had declined the right which the child held, the right to be a kid, and that was the extent of what he'd done.

He resented Nasuada for her restricting of magic, but Eragon saw the reason behind it nonetheless. The appearance of the Ra'zac would allow Orrin to gain political prestige in their extermination, but the queen was a grandmaster, and politics her chess.

For Queen Arya, however, things began to look more like mate the more she approached the elven capital…


	17. XVII

**WARNING: This chapter contains gory content not suitable to sensitive groups or children. Chapter synopsis at the bottom for them.**

 **Also, thanks for 500 views! I'd like to thank my mom. ㈷7 Okay, so not really, but thanks guys. I'd actually like to thank those of you that have stuck with this, for the number of visitors/views decreases with each chapter, though it does fluctuate. While those numbers and trends tell me valuable information, so would your reviews! I won't know how I'm doing unless you guys tell me.**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own the stuff.**

 **Also, my WiFi is broken, so I won't be uploading for a few days. Hopefully it'll be fixed by the time I go on another vacation, for I'd like to upload another chapter. However, there's no guarantees. I'm also going to have to go through and edit typos again, but as I've said, there are no guarantees.**

Owëya: oh-WAY-uh

Linnëa: Lin—NAY-uh

 ** _XVII_**

Ninth Survivor didn't need a saddle to ride his dragon, for his exoskeleton protected him from the scales. He did, however, need a name, and Arya had told him the dragon would choose its own.

As a Ra'zac, he retained heavy resistance against mental infiltration, and struggled to open his mind. When he finally did, he'd learned the dragon was a she, and her name was Owëya.

Much like himself, Owëya excelled in hunting, although seemed rather narcissistic, even for a dragon. She'd deemed herself unworthy of Arya's presence, desiring only to be among "the predators of the land."

Now that Owëya could fly, Ninth Survivor desperately wished to flee for this 'Vroenguard' to revive his race. Arya, however, had refused.

"You mustn't leave. If anything sees you, your death shall be nigh."

 _"But if we travel with you, all of our deaths will be."_

"You need training, and to do that you need to see Eragon. I must train you before you make the journey."

 _"Even if I could use magic, I cannot pronounce the words of the Ancients. My skills in combat are enough to get by, especially after what you've taught me."_

"Even so," the elf said, unrelenting, "you are a Rider now."

 _"It's political, nay, actual suicide!"_

"Not if your mind is to be examined and your intentions proved pure."

 _"You think the bias of the other races will be so easily overcome? And what of the humans I have killed? Surely they shall bear witness to my predication."_

"Predatation yes, but that's not murder."

Survivor hissed, for not long ago Arya didn't know the difference. How could she honestly expect her subjects to?

"Survivor, you must come."

 _"I shall follow you."_

"Good, because we're approaching Du Weldenvarden, and troubles shall follow."

 _I will eat any troubles, for none could stand against the might of a dragon._

 _Young mind,_ Fírnen scolded, _do not overestimate your powers, lest you fall. These are elves, and they are unlike that which you've faced before._

Owëya growled at the remark, but Survivor backed the elder dragon's judgements, forcing his partner to concede.

"As we've discussed, I cannot disguise you with magic, for the elves will surely see through the ruse. I could detain you as a prisoner, but you are bonded, which leads to even more complications."

Survivor clicked his beak. They had discussed the topic many a time, but a conversation was needed to fill the passing hours.

 _"And we may rest at night, for the shadows hide the sun. However, we've run out of supplies, and I smell no nearby pigs, only your kind."_

The moonlight showed the elf's contemplation, her head titled, eyes focused on a patch of grass.

"You may have to scavenge. I know hunting is your preference, but we've little choice. It disgusts me, however."

 _"Aye, but it shan't be so disturbing as you've witnessed, for I am more acquainted with humanoid anatomy, and should be able to make neater incisions."_

Apparently, the disgrace of his prey's body was not what disgusted the queen, for she retched. "It's not _how_ you eat," she explained. "It's _what_ you eat."

Survivor remained dumbfounded, for truly nothing could be so neat as a perfectly dissected corpse. When you pierced an organ or tore instead of sliced, the Ra'zac could understand. But nothing could bring more pleasure than a perfectly honored body, cut open by the torso with clean cuts instead of jagged edges. Hardest of all to open without damage to the internal systems was the cranium, for the brain was a fragile thing, and tended to come out in chunks.

 _"If my kind can spare it, we prefer to show respect to our prey, for they gave their lives to satiate our starvation. That is why I prefer to neatly pick them apart."_

Arya's face turned a darker shade. "Survivor?"

 _"Aye?"_

"Stop talking. Please. I find this revolting."

 _You pointy-ears are so soft,_ Owëya teased.

 _You have no idea; she doesn't even savor meat._

 _"If I didn't have to, I wouldn't either. But alas, I must eat. Surely you'd know the way—Those are big leaf-sticks!"_

"'Leaf-sticks?' You mean trees? I forget how incredibly naïve you are. However, the time has come for your judgement, or you cannot enter Du Weldenvarden."

Survivor traced the curve at the tip of his beak with his worm-like tongue, an anxious habit he'd formed overtime. An arrow bounced off of his battered exoskeleton.

"Halt!" his royal companion shouted in the Ancient Language. "It is I, Arya Drötting, your Queen!"

"Why have you brought the fiend?"

"He is no fiend, and all shall be explained in its time. _"_

"I apologize, my Queen, but we must read your intentions."

"I expect nothing less," she stated.

However, when the time came to pass where they would permeate Survivor's mind, he blocked them on instinct, aggravating them so they drew swords. _"Do not invade my privacy!"_

"Do not invade our forests! You may not enter unchecked!"

 _"I didn't react when you shot an arrow at me, did I?"_

"You prey on our people. It's not exactly an olive branch petition."

 _"I swear a solemn vow to do no harm* to the elves, their forest or their homelands."_

"That will suffice, I suppose. Remember that we are watching."

The tension lifted, tension that Survivor hadn't known had built up until its release. They had made it.

Arya, evidently noticing his sense of achievement, reminded him they had yet to traverse the trees. "However," she continued, "we may now ride our dragons."

Nodding, the Ra'zac boarded his sentient vessel, who, due to her sheer size, wove through the pines much more effortlessly than Fírnen. Owëya purred with satisfaction at the sight of her sire.

Snapping branches, the green dragon rose to their elevation, Arya on his back.

As a Ra'zac, no irises encompassed his pupae, leaving an ocean of black covering his eyes. This left his vision in caverns or under the moon pristine—even more so than the elves'. The expanse of trees covered every portion of his field of view, a beautiful mixture of grays and blacks defined by dark contours.

He wondered how it must look to the other races. He tried to imagine this 'green' they described, but couldn't synthesize anything beyond the world of shades he knew.

 _If you would allow me, ground hunter, I will show you through mine eyes. However, you must wait till the moon sinks, for the world is nigh on colorless beyond the sun._

 _Thank you, Owëya. Would it please you to view the world by me?_ Gratitude emanated from the partnered consciousness in response to the reciprocated offer.

 _Aye, my beloved._

His mind expanded like a volcanic island, albeit it much less gradually. Algaësia, once so familiar, teemed with foreignness from Owëya's inexperience.

Unity disbandeded into individualism as his dragon reverted to her own body.

 _Your world is bland, and yet it's so much more detailed than mine own._

 _Really?_ Ninth Survivor's uvula vibrated against the back of his throat, a reaction that replaced laughter. _Of all things, I'd have never expected praise from you._

 _Don't grow accustomed to such rarities, lest you be sorely disappointed._

Vibrating his throat in amusement, the Ra'zac reallocated his attention to Arya and Fírnen. The elf's mien disseminated a grim, distant air, suggesting a mental conversation.

Realizing the cause, Survivor's lightened mood dimmed considerably. Fate showed them no promise of survival, and the two Riders had acquiesced their inevitable execution. Survivor had been more than capable of escaping from a human compound, but the elves matched his physical abilities, and they could use magic.

Survivor could use it too, but his anatomy lacked the oral muscles to pronounce the Ancient Language correctly, and Arya had informed him of the reasons not to use his powers mentally.

If either of them were pardoned, he knew that it would be Arya, not himself. At best, Survivor could fell an elf or two in an ambush, but such needless life-taking would only result in the loss of his own.

 _Do not worry, grounded hunter,_ Owëya consoled. _If any pointy-ears attempt to harm you, I shall eat them_.

Touched by his dragon's devotion, Ninth Survivor stroked her scales. He didn't bother telling Owëya that even a dragon could not match so many elves, for her pride would deny it with fury.

Instead he focused his senses to the wildlife below. Wolves howled, scattering a pack of their prey, mass scuffles whispering from below the pines. The keen of a mother's loss accompanied the wails of a doe, but Ninth smelled too much blood for there to be one victim. Snarls indicated the swarming carnivores' competition in tasting the flesh.

Arya grumbled curses that weren't intended to be heard, but the Ra'zac possessed the hearing of a nocturnal predator.

 _"You shouldn't fault them for their instincts!"_ Survivor projected through the whickering air.

"But to slaughter the young and frail? It's cowardice!"

 _"Your trees must be pruned to grow, and the wolves trimmed the weak branches!"_

Arya shouted something about saplings, but he dropped the argument in awe of the sight before him. Pines twice as large as the rest of Du Weldenvarden circled around an even taller tree, cowering before its size.

He vaguely heard Arya recite a hearing spell. "Ninth Survivor, are you there?"

 _"The heart of the forest…"_

 _Its beauty is rivaled only by myself,_ Owëya observed.

"I take it by your gawking that we've reached the Menoa Tree?"

" _It has a name?_ "

Forgetting the lack of visibility, the elf nodded. "Do you wish to hear more?"

" _Aye, m'lady._ "

"There once was an old elf by the name of Linnëa. She cared little for anything but the art of singing plants."

 _Singing?_ The queen answered his unspoken curiousity.

"When combined with magic, singing can alter the shape of plants. As I was saying," she resumed, "Linnëa fell in love with a younger elf, and for a time, they were happy. Her mate desired someone younger replaced Linnëa with another mate."

Ninth Survivor waited for her to continue, knowing that eventually the story would be relevant.

"When she found out, she murdered them, flew from persecution and sung herself into the eldest tree in the forest. Now she watches over her only remaining love: Du Weldenvarden."

 _Grounded hunter, I must rest. Your exoskeleton burdens mine energy._

 _"Owëya has tired; we must stop."_

"Then let us land some distance from the Menoa Tree. We're less likely to be spotted in a place of low traffic."

Their dragons twisted towards the earth, preparing for an onslaught of branches.

* _TF2 reference. Team Fortress 2 is owned by Valve, and I do not own the rights to either of them or Steam or whatever else._

 ** _For all of you with a sensitive stomach, Survivor explained how his culture preferred to honor their prey by eating them neatly, without crude tools. Also, his dragon can fly now, and is a female named Owëya. They approached Du Weldenvarden, but he didn't let the guards read his mind, swearing a peace oath instead._**


	18. XVIII

**This should be jnteresting. Instead of notes, I'm writing directly in the copy/paste section, and there may be an increased amount of typos due to my having to use desktop/tablet mode. I also would like** ** _feedback,_** **and I have a stunning lack of it. This is where I start tuning up the political drama as well as the plot. Also, I realize "genocided" is not an actual verb, but if Shakespeare can make words we still use today, then I can tag a verb suffix onto a noun. It's fanfiction; who's gonna care?**

 **And yes, I put an 'i' in "tsk." Sue.**

 **Disclaimer: Don't actually sue me. I do not own the Inheritance Cycle.**

Odauthleikr: (Elvish) "Immortal" [ _lit._ (o–+dauthleikr) "not mortal"] oh-DOWTH-leek-air

Tulaya: too-LAY-uh

Savjin: SAHV-yin

 ** _VIII_**

Kurdka sat hunched-over amongst a pile of boulders. He felt individuals whose age surpassed the first elves to migrate into Algaësia: the great trees.

 _What a simple life,_ he thought. He couldn't understand it. How could anything live for thousands of years doing nothing? He had trouble sitting in place four a few hours to meditate. Just minutes into listening, he'd longed to move. The desire expanded to the degree where he couldn't breathe.

He expanded his attention to the rest of the forest, but his notice touched a vast consciousness and filtered out all else. Before Kurdka could locate the presence, barriers were founded. It felt as if he'd been thrown from his mind.

He leaned to his left to grab his double-bladed sword, which he'd propped up against a rock. It had been recovered from Galbatorix's clutches, and according to the descriptions of primary sources, was Odauthleikr, a mythological sword.

Something blurred in his peripherals, so he assumed a defensive stance. A sharp pain impacted his skull, and the Urgal squinted in an attempt to stay conscious. A humanoid figure dragged him by hisarms, but his eyes couldn't focus. Then Kurdka passed out.

* * *

"What do you mean, taken?!" Blödhgarm's face shimmered in the pool of water beneath Eragon.

"There's a trail of blood from his last known location."

"If Kurdka's gone, why aren't you looking?"

A wall crumbled behind the elf. "As you can see, we're under attack."

"By whom?" Eragon couldn't fathom why someone would show open hostility to the Riders. It'd be signing a political, physical and guaranteed death wish.

"We don't know. They took down our wards just by looking at them. Most of us have fallen. Only I and Upoh remain, and he's gone to defend the Vault. Eragon, it's all—"

The Head-Rider gulped, for the only thing left of Blödhgarm were his pained screams. He searched the image, but all he saw was fire.

"Théraen?"

"What ails you?"

"We mustn't tarry in our quest. The Vault has fallen."

* * *

Arya stood up straight in the middle of her Council. The room was a small dome with an outer circle of chairs. Across the room from the door was a throne, which she noticed had remained empty. Even though he was the temporary monarch, Däthedr still showed his respect for Arya as queen.

Ninth Survivor fidgeted next to herII chains. She wished he'd stop acting anxious and attempt a confident stance; this was no time for weakness.

"Lady Arya," addressed a bald woman covered in green scales, her eyes replicating a cat's.

"Yes, Tulaya?" The other eld's face contorted, but Arya didn't react. Although she was on trial, she refused to give any hint that she intended to step down from her position as Queen of the Elves.

"Is it safe to assume that your company slowed you down?"

"Yes it is."

"So you freely admit to supporting the Ra'zac?"

"No."

Tulaya tilted her head. "Explain."

"I only support this Ra'zac in particular."

"Then you have no objections if we were to accuse you of treason?"

"I do. You see—"

"What we see, Arya," snapped a young elf that resembled Vanir, "is you harboring an abomination that killed my son."

"If I may interject, Savjin, I believe Queen Arya is entitled to state her reasons."

"Thank you, Däthedr," Arya said, seizing her chance to speak. "This is not the same Ra'zac as the ones who killed Vanir, and he also speaks in the Ancient Language. I propose that we let him speak, since he cannot lie."

"I will not listen to a murder!" Savjin exclaimed.

The Ra'zac tisked. " _The grass eats the sunlight, the deer eats the grass and the wolf eats the deer; it is nature's game. Surely you, an elf, must understand the ways of the wild?_ "

"How dare you speak to me that way! You have killed one of our own!"

" _Just as the wolf has killed the deer. It is no different; we Ra'zac merely eat to survive."_

"Is that why you subjected to Galbatorix and ate humans at Helgrind?"

Ninth Survivor clicked his tongue, and Arya hoped that he wouldn't make things worse than he already did. " _Hundreds of years ago, my people were genocided. The ones you know of possessed the cruelty to survive, but I am not them._ "

"Couldn't you be? What's stopping us from executing you right now?"

" _Politics. You see, I am bonded to a dragon. Not just any dragon, but the offspring of Fíren and Saphira Brightscales._ "

Arya suppressed a sigh; for once, Ninth Survivor had said something right.

Savjin paled, Däthedr smiled with pride and Tulaya smirked. "So what you're saying is that we have a powerful monster bonded to an extraordinary dragon? Didn't we already deal with that? One tyrant was enough."

Savjin, playing off of the stance, added, "I say we vote now. Who finds Arya Drötting and the beast guilty of treason? I vote aye."

The votes circled the room, all favoring the charge except for Däthedr's.

"Very well," announced a grinning Tulaya. "I believe it is time to—"

 _YOU DARE FORSAKE THE WAYS OF THE WILD?!_

All occupants of the meeting started; the voice has shattered the wards.

 _YOU CALL YOURSELF AN ELF, AND YET YOU PUNISH NATURE FOR ITS FOOD CHAIN!_

"Who—"

 _DO YOU NOT EVEN RECOGNIZE THE MENOA TREE?! YOU ARE A DISGRACE!_ Roots tore off the roof, snapping all chairs from the room except for the throne and Däthedr's seat.

Arya straightened her posture. "It appears all valid council members wish for me to remain," she announced. None could argue, for the Menoa Tree had just robbed all but Arya and Däthedr of political stance, granting some to Ninth Survivor.

"All in favor of reinstating Arya Dröttning say 'aye,'" the still-seated elf voiced, before answering himself. "Aye."

 _"It would seem, Queen Arya, that your position on the throne has been unanimously agreed upon. However, should you wish to remain so, I suggest keeping my existence a secret. Everyone here has sworn an oath not to speak of this meeting without permission from the Council, and seeing as only our support remains on it, we can secure this information."_

"We have just the place," Arya replied, remembering the dwellings of Oromis.


	19. XIX

**Chapter 19 and still one review…Thanks guys; your feedback means so much to me! Seriously though, thanks for the two people who favorited and the one guy who left a review; it means a lot. I'd also like to thank the average of 20-40 of you whom have continued reading all these chapters. I don't have a beta, and although I don't need one, I still need to proofread earlier chapters. Thanks for reading despite all the autocorrect and format errors! (Gotta love compatibility issues.)**

 **Disclaimer: I don't own any of this. Why'd you have to remind me? ?**

Böen: boh-EHN

 _ **XIX**_

About one hundred tipis stood scattered throughout the plains, surrounding a large, rectangular arena of stone. Totem poles towered amongst clusters of structures, painted and carved to mimic various animals. At the very core of the village was a mighty castle.

Murtagh and Thorn flushed themselves against the ground, landing next to two young Urgals that sparred with wooden sticks. A horn vibrated the ground, and countless armed rams surrounded the pair, pointing spears, arrows, atlatls and lances at them. A Kull emerged from the crowd, which dispersed just enough to clear a path.

Much to their surprise, the Kull spoke fluently in the human tongue, no accent in the pronunciation. "Why have you trespassed upon these lands? Your kind is unwelcome here."

"Forgive us, but we need to rest and to restock supplies. We mean no harm."

The Kull laughed, exhaling in raspy wheezes. "If you wish to glean our services, you must earn enough prestige."

"And how would I do that?"

"Why, through battle of course! But where are my manners? A king must welcome a visitor such as yourself! Come with me to my chambers; I insist. You may call me Böen."

He led Murtagh and Thorn through a series of tents before happening upon the large fortress. Inside, a fur rug of combined hides functioned as a pathway to adjacent rooms, and the skull of a dragon hung from the ceiling, acting as a chandelier. Murtagh felt grateful Thorn couldn't enter the outer wall; he may have burned it down at the sight.

Murtagh and Böen continued out the chamber into a large courtyard. A blacksmith pounded at steel to the left, and an array of merchandise hung on a rack at the front of the forge. Kull sparred in a small circle to the right, and at the center of the courtyard stood the keep, cornered with rooks and surrounded by cannons above a moat.

A drawbridge lowered over the water, creaking. The opening was large enough to accommodate Thorn, and the wood quivered under the mighty dragon's steps.

In the center of the entry room sat a large tombstone, inscribed with Urgish. Böen, noting their curiousity, spoke. "It roughly translates to 'Here lies Kulkarvek, Father of Urgralgra.'"

The Rider froze, recalling Umaroth's warning to avoid that very set of remains.

"I take it you've heard of him?"

"Not in detail. Perhaps you could enlighten us?"

"Well, it starts with culture. The Urgralgra obsess over spirits, believing them to inhabit everything. We both know, however, the truth."

Murtagh began to notice distinct differences in the Kull, his red eyes chiefly among them.

"Each year, he it for the weather or fortune, our shamans summon spirits. They also command them for war. Each clan had five shamans, and Kulkarvek ruled the clans. However, there once was a shaman who could not control the spirits.

"For the clans to gain prestige under the ruler, the Chiefs must fight in the Arena. Well, the shaman bested all other Urgralgra, and eventually slew Kulkarvek, claiming the throne. Unfortunately, the Southern Clans have rebelled, claiming the shaman to not be a true king."

He paled. "Are you saying—"

"Aye, you are correct. I am he."

"So you… You're a Shade!" He drew Zar'roc, the action ringing throughout the room.

"Really now? There is no need for such hostilities here! You shall fight in the arena, and if you best my warriors, then we may battle. Be weary, though, for I am not the only shaman to have failed. This is a land of Shades."

 _Do as he says, saddler. If we can gain enough honor, we can leave._

 _"_ Fine. When do I start?"

"When you are ready. Also, do refrain from using magic. The Urgralgra are a superstitious race, and they will believe you a shaman or spirit. Only use it against other magic-wielders; not that it'll do much good against a Shade."

"I am ready."

* * *

Murtagh readied his stance, Zar'roc raised defensively. The roars and bellows of the amphitheater drowned into a hiss, and he studied the Urgal in front of him.

The Urgal was shorter than a Kull, but seemed to carry a graceful air—an ironic attribute for an Urgal. He wielded a tall, thin sword, its apex flat on one side, the forte covered in a gold-colored metal. Murtagh figured it wasn't real gold—gold was too soft for a blade.

The crowd climaxed as the Urgal spun the blade threw the air. The opponents approached each other, strafing. The Urgal swung down from the right and left, parried both times by Murtagh, and kicked out with his knee. Murtagh jumped back, using the distance to circle the adversary, who did likewise.

Murtagh faked a blow to the Urgal's left, forcing it to the right, but the duelist used the momentum to swirl and swing at Murtagh from the other side. Prepared, the Rider deflected the blade, jumped back to avoid a swing and leapt forwards slightly to the left, gaining an opening. Zar'roc was blocked when the Urgal twisted its wrist left, but the force overextended the joint, and it snapped and crackled. The Urgal howled, and the viewers remained silent. Realizing the next step, Murtagh beheaded the warrior and was met with applause.

The gate ahead of him opened, and an eight-foot Kull wielding a warhammer that was the height of Murtagh thundered forward.

 _Careful_ , Thorn warned.

Murtagh didn't share his concerns. The hammer was heavy, true, but that was also a weakness. It left the user open to attack. The problem was dodging; a parry would dislocate his shoulders, and any other contact with it would kill him.

Murtagh also realized the resemblance in the horns and facial structure of the new challenger to the last. It appeared as though he'd pissed off the loser's kin.

The Kull bounded forward, heaving his hammer at Murtagh, who just sidestepped, hacked off his arms and twisted to decapitate him. How the Kull outranked the first Urgal, Murtagh didn't know. Perhaps they'd been unwilling to fight each other.

Böen shouted something in Urgish, which seemed to excite the crowd. A Kull stormed out of a cage atop an ox—a peculiar situation given its race. Lance in hand, he charged at Murtagh as if jousting. Cursing, Murtagh rolled to the left.

The ox stumbled, dragging across the dirt. It slowly shifted around to face the Rider and rushed him again. He sidestepped the animal, ducking below a lance.

 _I can't continue like this,_ he decided, dodging again as the mount smashed into a wall. Murtagh sprinted to it, sliced its limbs and stabbed its butt. The beast fell onto its side, and the Kull rolled off its back upon making contact with the ground, swinging its lance to keep Murtagh back.

He danced away from the lance, too far away to counterattack. The Kull was backing him into a corner. He flipped Zar'roc so that the blade hung below the hilt and launched it at the assailant. It imbedded into a shoulder, stopping the enemy momentarily. Murtagh used the daze to close the distance, vaulted over the swinging lance and rolled past the ram. He sprang, hoisting himself up by the horns of his foe.

He curled his knees around the furry neck, strong hands prying them off after dropping the lance. Murtagh yanked Zar'roc from the body, loosening the opposing grip, and plunged it through the top of the skull between the two horns. The body fell, limp.

The crowd didn't react. Apparently, they hadn't expected that outcome. One Urgal clapped, followed by another, beginning slowly like an exponential slope and increasing drastically later on.

Panting, Murtagh muttered, "Waíse heill."

A flow of energy rushed through his and Thorn's channel, and he reimbursed it with gratitude.

Murtagh cursed at the site of his next opponent. He (or so Murtagh assumed) held a longbow and stood a good fifty paces away. Furthermore, his face had been shaved and painted with white, black and red marks, broken by various scars. He chanted inaudible words, and four bright orbs swirled about him. The bowman dropped his bow, flicking his arms at a downwards angle, and two orbs on each side slammed into the ground. Black humanoid figures emerged from the point of impact.

 _So this is a shaman…_ Without hesitation, Murtagh warded himself against the words of death and projectiles, and Thorn reinforced his energy. The four silhouettes loped at the Rider, and Murtagh caught an arrow with magic, redirecting it at a shadow. It flew through the being, splashing like water, and the hole repaired itself.

The Rider raced forward, averting a sword blow and slashing through a dark blade with Zar'roc. It had cut a spirit in half, but the tissue instantly regenerated. Expertly weaving through the onslaught, Murtagh headed for the shaman.

The four demons materialized in front of him. Unable to physically break the darkness, he shouted, "Garjzla!"

The surface area of the beings that the light had touched withered and receded, clearing a path for Murtagh. He reached his intended target, who stabbed at him with an arrow. He twirled his sword, lopping of the arms of the Urgal. He brought the blade up into the torso. Blood gushing, the foe gurgled and gasped until Zar'roc had opened the body enough for organs to fall out. The shaman collapsed, and Murgagh wretched.

Böen shouted more Urgish before calling down to the victor. "Rider! You have bested half of my champions! Tomorrow you shall face the Shades! Rest up, and don't try to leave, or we'll kill your dragon, cut out your tongue and remove your hands!" He wretched again.


	20. XX

**Disclaimer: It's a given.**

 **I'm glad you guys find Ninth Survivor's point of view refreshing. It's similar to what Paoloni did with the Urgals, but I don't think he did as good a job as he could have. What I'm doing with the Ra'zac, it's kinda like Call of the Wild, but a lot less depressing. Hopefully. But it also contains the meaning of life, which is to live and continue/improve the species. It's in the laws of nature. Most people expect the answer to be different, but that's because they've been asking the wrong question. What people really want to know is their purpose in life, and that is decided for yourself. If you want to know more about purpose, read Of Mice and Men. Or just look at Murtagh. I'll explain more about him later, I think, but for now, let's look at less deep stuff.**

 **Also, you're going to look at Jurgenurl and be like, "What?" He's autistic. That means it's easy to trigger an upset by accidently insulting them. I know because of my sister, who isn't quite autistic, but has similar communication things, is like that. I've also based the character off of her. He'll be kind, adorable and extremely artistic. My sister speaks, of course, so that'll be different. I also want to squeeze in some of that self-taught intellect. R like, comment and subscribe; favorite; tweet or whatever else there is. (Anyone else see a trend there?)**

Mïnen: (Elvish; _pl._ Mïnenar) hurt, harm or disease; ( _informal_ , _derogatory; exclam.)_ expression of contempt MY-nen

 _ **XX**_

"What are those?" Eragon motioned to the cones of hide spread thro ughout the vicinity.

"Tipis," Théraen replied. "We're in Urgal territory."

"Nay for hostilities here? That's a nice change."

She shook her head. "If only. These are the Northern Tribes. Anything that is known about them testifies to their cruelty; they are a brutal force."

 _Try as they might,_ boasted Saphira, _none can hope to contest the might of a dragon._

"Saphira," Eragon warned. "Don't be a fool; even dragons aren't invincible."

Jurgenurl huffed, vibrations rolling from underneath his snow-white scales. Offense slammed the Rider, but he couldn't figure out why.

"He feels you're calling dragons foolish and weak," Théraen explained, before turning to Jurgenurl. "Not that you are."

Eragon blinked twice and sighed. "Dragons are neither weak nor foolish. Indeed, they are wise and mighty." The anger diminished, replaced by acceptance.

 _Little one._

 _Aye?_

 _Notice something red?_

His hand shielding the sun from his eyes, he squinted at the village, noting a rectangular stone building and a large fortress, inside of which a blotch of red sat. As they neared the castle, the blur sharpened, condensing into the form of a dragon.

"It can't be…"

"Ebrithil?"

"Do mine eyes deceive me?"

"Master Eragon?"

"You wouldn't know, and perhaps it's better that way."

"Know what? Mine eyes aren't what they used to be."

In response, Jurgenurl seemed to lose focus, and Théraen's doubled. "Is that a dragon? The only red dragon we know of would be… Nay, he's dead…"

 _Little one, we need to tell them._

 _But what if they react negatively?_

 _The old one is wise. Plus, they trust us._

"Mïnen," he grunted.

"Théraen, Murtagh never died. He just fled Algaësia. I watched him go."

"You let him flee? What of his sins?"

"His crimes were not his own, but the people could never accept that."

"Aye. The races are not a forgiving people."

Eragon expanded his mind, finding four blocked consciousnesses, one of which—obviously Murtagh—had barriers of a mental faith depicting Nasuada. The other three, however, rammed through his defenses.

Whoever had lashed out sifted through nearly everything, but some secrets had been banished from his mind fin case of invasion. Théraen and Jurgenurl, however, appeared to not give in so easily. In his focus, Jurgennurl forgot his place and plummeted in defeat, distracting the dwarf.

She regained her resistance, and Eragon admired her persistence. Thirty seconds elapsed, and she collapsed. Eragon immediately channeled spare energy into the student alongside the dragons. She sprang up.

"How in the name of Gûntera did you hold them off?"

She just smirked. "Lots of practice." She paled. "Before they stole my mind, I gleaned snippets of theirs. It's not good."

"What did you see?"

"Master, they're Shades."

Despite the somber atmosphere, Eragon chuckled. The fact that she'd fended against Shades for approximately forty-five seconds betrayed her rank.

Saphira descended, skidding along the wild barley, unfolding chunks of weeds.

A gruff voice rumbled to their left. "Two more Riders? Impressive. Which one of you defended the mind so well?"

"Which one of you is Böen?" snapped Théraen.

Eragon squinted towards the red orbs. To his surprise, they belonged to a Kull. If it weren't a Shade, he would have been surprised to find the lack of accent accompanying the human tongue. From his experiences with Durza, he'd expected the statement to infuriate it, but the being snickered.

"I am he. I must admit, I was surprised an egg had hatched for one as frail as you. But now I've seen the mighty fortress that is your mind, and now I understand."

Eragon moved his right hand to _Brisingr_ 's hilt, but the dagger at his throat prevented him from drawing it.

"I wouldn't try that," Böen warned. "You shan't find me as weak as Durza."

He paled. It had taken a dragon shattering the world's largest gemstone directly at Durza to phase the Shade, and that was considered frail?

The skin where the knife had been itched and burned. Böen muttered an anti-poison spell. The blue Rider furrowed his brows.

"I can't have you poisoned yet! You must prove your honor in the arena! As for you," he said, turning to face the elderly Apprentice, "I think I have other uses. Your magic would annihilate most opponents, but I wouldn't risk you in physical combat." Eragon sighed, somewhat relieved.

"Ah, you care. It's a pity, really. It'll weaken you in battle. Then again, it'll make what I have planned more amusing."

He flushed in anger. _So he thinks me a pawn? I guess he'll be surprised to see me jump obstacles._

The Shade knowingly smiled. "Tomorrow you will be able to prove yourself. For now, you should rest. You'll need it. Dragons, come with me. If you try anything, I will freeze you so you can watch me butcher your Riders. Then I'll leave you on display, but I'll feed you. It'll be a great trophy."

Saphira's throat brightened. _Don't try anything,_ Eragon advised. The dragon snorted, but she backed down.

"Wise choice."

* * *

The figure before him shook, his dark brown hair coming to his shoulders, his eyes space gray. He drew a sword, and its blade reflect light onto the walls, the glare moving with it. The pommel, Eragon saw, was red.

"Murtagh?"

"Ah, you do know him!" Böen chirped. He shouted something in Urgish to the crowd, who laughed in turn. "You two… I wouldn't have seen it unless you both were in the same room, but your faces seem similar. Are you kin?"

"He's mine _half_ -brother," Murtagh spat.

"You're still bitter?" Eragon didn't know why, but he'd thought that, after all that had happened, Murtagh would release his resentment.

Instead, he just scoffed. Murtagh readied his stance, asking permission to start the duel. Grunting, Eragon drew _Brisingr_ , initiating the fight.

Eragon dulled his blade, but Murtagh didn't dull his. Instead, he shook his head before bounding forth. Eragon repeated the spell, blunting _Zar'roc_ just before it jarred his left shoulder. He collapsed, bringing his blade around Murtagh with his right arm, but was denied by the other blade. His arm flew back, and he literally rolled with it, avoiding an overhead strike.

He kicked himself up, using the momentum to bring _Brisingr_ down to avoid using his dislocated shoulder. Murtagh parried and kicked his injured shoulder, and he spun counterclockwise, swinging his leg underneath Murtagh, who jumped, swinging _Zar'roc_ as he landed.

Eragon sidestepped the blow and forced his pommel at his oppenent's elbow, hitting the nerve of the sword arm. His brother stumbled, so he hit him with the flat of _Brisingr_ , launching him forward.

The Head-Rider leapt after him, but Murtagh somersaulted as he met the ground. Eragon heard him swear when his back contacted the earth. He didn't strike at the exposed body, sympathizing.

His foe, once his friend, used the advantage to knee him in the diaphragm. He choked, attempting to suck in air, but pain filled his lungs instead. His instinct alone blocked the follow-up blow from the enemy sword.

Finally his throat opened, and the air tasted sweet, as if he'd walked out of a room filled with steam. His muscles used the oxygen to fuel the vigor.

He bounced _Zar'roc_ aside and let Murtagh scramble for it. "I thought that sword would redeem itself, but it appears it is still worthy of its name." He muttered a spell and pressed the tip of _Brisingr_ to his back, but the audience would see it go in. He'd doubted the Shades would be fooled, but knew they wouldn't interrupt

He also muttered an incantation to render Murtagh unconscious.

"Böen!" he bellowed. "Before I move on, I must bury him! He deserved better!"

"Oh, ever the fool. You really think that, don't you?"

He answered with a glare, reinforcing his stubbornness.

"If it will improve your skill, fine! I want you to be at your best when the world sees you crushed!"

* * *

He saddled Thorn, whom Eragon had said would explain everything. He also directed him south, saying it was important. Murtagh wouldn't have cared, except that he had vouched for him at the Varden, held back in battle, told him how to escape Galbatorix, let him leave Algaësia, and now he'd saved his life. He wasn't just even with Eragon now; he owed him.

Thorn told him of the new Vault, of the Ra'zac, and of the new Rider's fall. He supposed he had to save what he could, for Algaësia would need the Riders to exterminate the Ra'zac, and he cared too much for Thorn for another holocaust to befall his race.

So he'd left, alerting Eragon about the wild dragon, and felt grateful he hadn't watched him go. That boy was just too naïve for his own good.

* * *

Eragon ran, his excitement preventing him from standing. It was dwarfed, though, by Saphira's.

 _Little one,_ she chirped, _do you know what this means?_

 _I know! It has to be! He's found Raugmar the Black!_

 _You know what this means, don't you?_

 _Aye, I just—_

 _I can't believe it!_

 _Neither can I, Saphira, but—_

 _Do you know what this means?_

 _Aye, Saphira! I just told you! Now—_

 _He's alive!_

 _SAPHIRA!_

 _What is it, little one? You needn't have yelled._

He avoided contradicting her. _We need to head back._

Both of their moods dropped, but he mounted her nonetheless, and the pair darted for the arena. She rose above the walls, dove towards the ground and tilted. Eragon rolled from the saddle down her wings, landing, his knees bent, his dominant hand flat on the earth.

An Urgal relaxed across the stadium, lounging against the wall, his elbows bent, arms on the back of his head. He yawned, and Eragon felled a bubble in his chest, relieving it with the same action.

Walls of fire on his right and left approached him. He warded himself from it, and the flames receded, leaving soot on the ground in the shape of an X.

Smacking his lips, the Urgal muttered an illusion spell, though it seemed like he'd spoken in his sleep.

The world around Eragon melted, and he saw Garrow, covered in burns, stare at him. The most disturbing part was his eyes, for they contained no irises or pupae. He spoke, but in a collection of different voices. On top of Garrow's, he heard Brom's, Oromis's, Hrothgar's and Ajihad's voices as well.

All of them asked one question: "Why didn't you save me?"

And then the voice of everyone he'd ever killed join them. Some people were young, maybe thirteen at most. Others sounded middle-aged. The ones that hit him hardest were of the slaves in Dras-Leona.

"Killer," they accused.

"Aye," he concurred. "Every time I shut mine eyes."

His vision swirled like he'd just soun in a chair, and eventually the world settled, revealing the Urgal across the stage. It opened its left eye. "If ghosts don't haunt you, perhaps illusions will."

Everything burned, including his eyes from the smoke. A little girl ran forward, arms extended, holding out a rope. He grabbed it without hesitation, wrapped it around her hands and secured a knot. The girl smiled, her left front tooth missing from upper jaw.

"Thank you for saving us."

He watched families hang from a tree, Urgals pillage homes and young men slaughter each other.

"We're freeing them, Eragon," said Nasuada beside him. "We're bringing peace."

Triana approached a homeless boy. "You have been using magic?"

The boy sobbed. "Please… Please don't take this from me…"

"You are under arrest for the unauthorized use of magic. You will be detained until we're confident you can use it responsibly."

"Please!" He pleaded more desperately than Eragon thought he would for his own life. "It's all that I have! It's all I am!"

He watched Galbatorix raze a city, shouting, "It's all for peace! You should thank me!"

His men slaughtered young soldiers, some of which Eragon recognized from fighting alongside the Varden. "He's evil," he muttered. "I'm good. I'm different. I do what I do because it's right."

Galbatorix laughed. "I said the same thing."

The image broke, and Eragon trembled. _I can't be like him… I can't… Am I? Am I just like him?_ He stared at the opponent in front of him. His breaths grew short when he realized he'd have to kill him too. He wondered why. What reason could there possibly be?

His memory shot him with the answer. If he didn't kill him, he would die. It wasn't right, but then again, neither outcome really was. He decided to continue.

"A strong one, huh? I know your type. You're so focused on being strong for the negative, positive feelings can shut you down."

The description made him think of Arya, but before he could relocate his thoughts, she appeared in front of him in a valley of golden lilies. Then he stopped thinking completely. He finally regained his cognition enough to realize she was kissing him.

He pulled back, confused. "Arya?"

"Is something wrong?" She seemed hurt that he'd severed their lips' connection.

"You tell me."

"Eragon, everything's just right." She kissed him again, forcing her tongue into his mouth. He rolled his around the mouth, and despite his inexperience, it didn't feel like Arya's.

Something cold rubbed his back, and he tensed. A breeze swept through the bottom of his shirt.

 _Nay. This isn't right._ He wanted to believe it was, but the Arya he knew, his Arya, would never be so open.

She grabbed at his leggings, and it confirmed the falsehood. Arya would never give into lust without commitment; she cherished children too much. Conquering the lie, he remembered the arena, but he didn't return to it.

He second-guessed his conclusions. He'd been unsure when she had visited the Riders, but he'd known the truth then, albeit doubtfully.

He looked down to where _Brisingr_ should have been, but found nothing. Still, he made the motion of pulling it from his scabbard, and it materialized in his grip. When Arya didn't notice, he discerned that the Shade kept him in.

Remembering his position prior to the vision, he pointed _Brisingr_ forward, shocked at Arya's obliviousness, and even more so when she realized she was still kissing an image of him.

Shrugging, he charged forward. An invisible force stopped him with a thud, and the hallucination phased out. The Urgal stood, a sword poised overhead, coughed blood at Eragon's face, disintegrating. The blade clattered behind Eragon, who repositioned his into the heart of the Shade. The slow transition became instantaneous, and a pile of dust replaced the duelist.

He'd killed the Shade, but instead of pride, he felt shame for killing another person, disgust at the concept of war and contempt for the approving crowd.

And he still had to defeat two more challengers.


	21. XXI

**So yeah. Give feed back, I guess. Also, I agree that it's a dying fandom, but it also has to do with this being rated M. The section gets a lot less publicity because people tend to post MA content there. Admittedly I can get pretty gross too, but it's not as bad as some of the stuff I've seen. It's mostly just me using strong imagery. I figured it would make Ninth Survivor seem less good and more of a survivalist. That effect will largely come later, but for now it's Eragon again.**

 ** _XXI_**

A Kull leapt from the observation deck attached to the wall furthest from Eragon, dust pluming and swirling around until it settled. It carried a brutal weapon: A large, spiked ball sunk into the ground, attacked to a rod by a chain.

"Barzûl," Eragon swore. He doubted Brisingr could is nearly cut through the chain when lit, and all his reserves would be needed to stop the weapon. Its weight meant that stopping it with a spell would instantly drain him, and while he wouldn't die, he'd pass out.

The Kull swung the ball towards Eragon, who backpedaled to avoid it. When the end hit the ground, Eragon realized a much simpler tactic.

"Jierda!" he cried. The chain snapped where it connected to the handle, and the Kull dropped what remained of his weapon, muttering a spell.

Eragon hovered, unable to move his body, struggling against the grip. A sadistic smile found the Kull's face.

It spoke in the Ancient Language, taunting him. "Shadeslayer, huh? What, were they sleeping? Not so strong against a real enemy, are you?"

"My strength is mine own," he replied. "I have a true soul, not a foreign one."

"Fool! We spirits are stronger than any one soul! We are great and mighty! We are true power! Surely you must see that the wise would let spirits rule them!"

Eragon gambled an idea into action. "Spirits are superior, then?"

"Why, of course!"

"And without the ones that invaded that body, the Kull would be weak?"

"He would be nothing without us, for we spirits are mightier than the oldest dragons!"

"Which of you has accomplished the most."

Eragon's breathing smoothed when the being pondered the question; it was working.

"We all contribute power to our actions, and therefore all of us have accomplished as much as the others."

"But which one of you is the greatest?"

"We are equal," it said, brows furrowed.

"But if you maintain this balance," Eragon insisted, "then how can you truly know."

The Kull sat, twirling the fur tha hung from its chin. A minute of inaction passed before it winced, and then five more before it twitched. After thirty more seconds, it twitched again.

"I... We..."

The ram trembled. "Don't listen to his words!" the Kull shouted at the wall.

"Hush! Why should we listen to you, when it is clear that I'm superior!"

"We can't know for sure!"

"Then how do you propose we find out?"

"I have an idea. Shur'tugal, in this spell, we shall see who is the greatest in its weaving."

"We can't do that, can we!"

"Of course not, you fools! It would take more than a spell!"

"Are we not in an arena to prove strength? Have we not been practicing the art of worth for eons?"

Eragon grinned as the hole on his limbs lessened.

"What are you doing? We still have to defeat him!"

"Don't distract me!"

"The spell is caving!"

"Lies! You just want me to take my focus off of you!"

"He's not lying; look!"

"I am no fool!"

The Kull screamed, and too many voices shouted to be distinguished.

At times the spell nearly suffocated Eragon, and at other times he could nearly draw _Brisingr_. The Kull screeched in a way no living creature could, and tears of blood dripped from the wet hair on its face. It curled into a fetal position, shuddering. Light projected from the crack between its knees, from the heart.

The wailing intensified, and smoke smarted Eragon's eyes until he had to shut them from the brightness. His eyelids didn't block enough out, but the spell completely released, and he cupped his hands over his face, turning away from the beams.

Heat scorched his back, and his ears rang from the woes of the Shade. A boom ruptured his thoughts, followed by the burning of his backside, and then only the ringing could be heard. He turned to face the Shade, but only found a pile of ash. It had been killed by literal internal conflict.

The pile of ash drifted into Eragon's lungs when Böen jumped from the observation deck. Coughing, Eragon forced his irritated lungs to relax.

"It would seem," the Kull said, "that in an inability to defeat the Shade, you let it defeat itself. It's of little matter; you shan't defeat me so easily."

He slid a rod from a beltloop, whipping a chain from its tip towards Eragon. It wrapped around _Brisingr_ and plucked it from Eragon's.

Eragon cursed. The Kull not only wielded a foreign weapon, but it also clasped _Brisingr_ in its left hand. The chain whipped towards Eragon, but he dove out of its path. Böen swung the chain from his right, forcing the Rider to duck and roll forward. Now within range of the sword, Eragon leapt back and to the left, effectively avoiding the chainwhip and blade.

"You're going to have to give up eventually."

"Nay. I am content to keep away."

As he averted another blow from the whip, Eragon empathized for the shaman who fell victim to the spirits. Was the soul still there, forced to watch its own body commit atrocities? Did it fight the spirits' will?

He sighed. Now was not the time to worry about such matters. He twirled from another attack. He worried nevertheless, and the basis for an idea formed. Eventually th idea took the form of words, and the words began to form a complex spell.

He began to recite it, dodging a lash, leaping forward to avoid it and back from _Brisingr._ He had finished halfway when the chain gripped his ankle, pulling him down, but he kept reciting, unwilling to accept defeat.

He rolled to avoid the thrust of Brisingr at his chest, nearly finished. As the chain grasped his neck, and the sword fell to sever it, he finished in the incantation.

"What have you done?"

"I freed the body."

Spirits emerged from the mouth, launching as the mandible lowered, flying to unkown locations. When the last of six fled, the body of the Kull collapsed, still awake, still breathing, but not sentient. Eragon felt for its soul, but found nothing.

"Barzûl!" The shaman was gone forever.

 **So yeah! Eragon got a Shade to commit suicide by turning the spirits in it avainst each other, then banished the next from the body. Heh, Durza could have been so much easier to defeat than anyone realized. But yeah, now I'm thinking of fillers to get Murtagh and Eragon to their destinations, and I have a couple ideas, so give me a week to plot the details. Sorry for the delay; it's because I lost interest and began an AU. This hopefully isn't turning into a dead fic, but if I lose interest completely, I will schedule a weekly update and force myself to do it, mainly because I want to go back and read this for myself.**

 **The AU is called Parallel Lines, and it's rated M. Go check it out!**


	22. XXII

**Does this feel filler-ish? I dunno; I suppose that's for you to decide. Got suggestions, comments or critique? Let me know in the reviews below!**

 **Oh, and Paolini attempted some crude form of archaic English by using (somewhat incorrectly) a pronoun or two from Early Modern English. I really don't wanna hafta do the hundreds of hours of research to write like it was in the 16th Century, so I guess you'll have to live with a similar approach.**

 *** indicates a non-canon term in the definitions.**

Amnur*: (Elvish; _past_ Amnuro) to show grace, usually by receiving the punishment ( _lit._ "gracefully shame") um-NURE-(oh)

 _ **XXII**_

Murtagh and Thorn slowed to behold the leaven barrier. Vine curled into a great wall, covered in javelin-sized thorns.

"Can we fly above it?"

 _Nay. Its height rivals that of the Beors._

"It cannot be... Is it... Moving?"

An arm flicked out of the shifting vines, flicking at Thorn's underbelly, deflected by scales. It grabbed the dragon by the forelimb, and Murtagh severed the hedge's arm. The vine withered and receded into the earth, but the injury was nothing more than a pulled hair to the giant wall.

Another such extension bounded towards the pair, and it hesitated at an oncoming fire bolt from Murtagh. Water spewed from pores, and the flame erupted into a puff of mist. The extension continued, puncturing Thorn's wing. It tore through the thin, leathery tissue between the skeletal structure. Thorn spiraled to the ground.

* * *

Kurdka's dream broke with the prodding of a sharp object. Assuming it was Amnur, he responded with very impolite words. This turned out to be a mistake.

"You shall wake when told to, beast."

Immediately unhinging his eyelids, he shot up, fist raised, striking blindly at the intruder.

"Letta."

His knuckles halted two centimeters before the face of a human.

"Where am I?"

The man laughed, his eyes green, his pointed ears stabbing the air. A bandanna flowed around his lips, dripping down his chin. "You think yourself in a position to bargain? Fool."

He desired to attack the man, but he hesitated, waiting for Amnur to chide him. Then the dragon didn't.

"What have you done with Amnur?"

"Amnur? Amnur is a verb, and you shall certainly not receive it from me."

"Amnur is the name of a dragon. The one I am bonded to."

"Bonded? A dragon? What madness ails you?"

Loneliness enveloped Kurdka, and his body urged himself to cry. The dams which resisted his tears held the water. He would not weep in front of this man.

"He bore my shame, and thus his name is grace."

"What? Dragons don't exist, much less possess titles."

Kurdka frowned. "Very well; I shall call Amnur to prove his existence." He attempted to expand his consciousness, but he never breached his skull. "Why can't I expand my mind?"

"You may not use magic."

"But I can't contact him without my mind!"

"What kind of fool do you take me for?"

"That you asked that question tells me a large one."

The man smacked his face, and bloodlust aroused within him.

"An Urgal who doesn't fight? What are you?"

"A Rider."

"What?"

Kurdka huffed. "If you don't believe in dragons, then explaining is pointless. Why am I here?"

"You wielded Odauthleikr."

"Aye. What of it?" Kurdka couldn't fathom why it offended the man so.

"It is the legacy of my people, mine history, and it is wielded by a beast."

"It fits me. My master gave it to me."

"Master? Who has trained you?"

"Many, but the one of whom I speak of is known has Blödhgarm. He is an elf."

"An elf? Bah! I would know of mine own people, and none possess such a title!"

"Do you know of the Urgalralga?"

"Another story we tell our children at night so they behave."

"I am an Urgal."

"Urgals are extinct. Should you claim to be one, where reside thine horns?"

Kurdka resumed sitting, planting his face against his palms, stroking his fur. "I lost them," he croaked.

"An Urgal would never lose their horns."

"Nay. The ones who do are executed," Kurdka murmurred.

"And what of you?"

"I slew the monster that did it, and was banished instead."

"A dragon would not hatch for anyone."

"Where you have been, I know not. However, the land which I hail from is much different than Alalëa."

"You cannot mean..."

"Aye, I am."

* * *

The humans—or rather, what appeared to be humans—had somehow managed to breach the Vault. Before Upoh could swing his axe, it shattered in his hand, the pieces embedding into his hand.

Then they questioned him in the Ancient Language, but in a thick accent and a foreign dialect.

"Why have you enslaved the dragons?" they demanded.

"You do not get out much, do you?" he retorted in the same tongue.

The man, balding with grayish eyebrows, backhanded the elf's face.

"Answer our questions!"

"Well, to answer your question, these dragons are not enslaved by anyone."

"Do not think us fools. Your grasp has been relieved. Have they been enslaved in the past?"

"Yes."

"So you have enslaved them?"

"No. You really are ignorant to the world." Upoh sighed at their confusion.

"There still lies a loophole, elf."

"Have you ever even heard of Algaësia?"

The man staggered, and his companions reacted with shock as well.

"The legends are true then…" a hazel-eyed blonde breathed.

He grunted. These people may have killed his friends, kidnapped his student and vandalized his homeland in ignorance, but knowledge would counter the reason. "Please, take a seat. I have much to explain. However, if I am to reveal my history, then I expect you to do likewise."

"We shall see, elf," the old man replied.

Upoh began with the migration of the elves, and he compared the intruders' earnest attention to Eragon's curiousity, that of a child. He related to the prejudiced action against the dragons to the sacking of the campus. He explained to them how the dominant dominant races had found a bridge: the Riders. The listeners reacted correctly, shocked and dismayed at Galbatorix's treachery, amused at Eragon's immaturity, and ashamed at the destruction of the new Order.

"Now," Upoh began. "I've told you my story; would you deny me yours?"

"Have you ever heard of the Grey Folk?"

 **Some of you may have noticed how the elves talk differently. That is intentional. It's symbolic for what the elves embody in the Inheritance Cycle. I think I'll let you figure out what I mean.**


	23. XXIII

**So, remember how the elves left Alalëa following "a grave mistake?" I'm going to cover that, and it'll be a bit of a message on greed.**

 ** _XXIII_**

"Pardon me, but how did your ancestry survive? After the Binding, surely your race was diminished." Upoh inquired.

"That remains lost to the generations," the old man lamented.

"Surely there must be record of such endeavors somewhere," the elf insisted.

"Nay, not a record. There is something... Nay, it'd be nigh on impossible to achieve."

"Achieve what?" he pressed.

"Our ancestors bound magic to the Ancient Language after the... incident," the Grey Descendant stated. Upoh noted the hesitancy of the explanation, but waited for him to continue. "What most people don't know I'd that not all of our peoples left."

"How so? One would have beheld any remaining Grey Folk."

"Aye, right you are. But there is one line of blood which remained bound to the land of Algaësia."

"Pray tell," Upoh encouraged.

"There is a bloodline picked by fate itself, one descendent from all races within that land. The one who remained at the time went mad."

"How would such a species reproduce?"

"A secret we shan't disclose, that is. I will tell you that their spawn is more... Indirect than one would suppose."

Upoh's mind tugged at the mystery. "What capabilities would such a being pose?"

"They are most deeply intwined with the workings of time. They are historians not of the past, but of the present and future."

"And such a race lingers in Algaësia?"

"Not that you would know," the Descendant replied. "I have a query to beg."

"Yes?"

"Your people too fled a mistake. My brethren would wish to know, for it suceeds the timeline of our arrival by mere decades."

"You would have me reveal my race's greatest shame?"

"The gesture would be likewised returned," he bargained.

Upoh frowned. Should he withold anything, he risked renewing hostilities with the Grey Folk— _Grey Descendants_ , he reminded himself. While still reluctant, the elf agreed.

"A foreign peoples—whom I can only assume to have been the Grey Folk—migrated to our lands, pleasing shelter. We agreed, and throughout our hospitality, we helped them build settlements and offered protection from the Urgals.

"Alas, with our generosity came a price. Your people came bearing diseases, the likes of which we'd never witnessed. We were not as enlightened as we are today, and so we blamed the Grey Folk for treachery. Unfortunately, your ancestors regained much strength since then, and while outnumbered in troops, their strength, experience and will to live surpassed our own."

"And? Surely the elves weren't easily overcome."

"No, we weren't. Like all sentients, we fell privy to greed. The king at that time hungered for the power. He took with him our finest, slaughtering villages of your kind, trading plagues. It remains unclear as to how, but the magical prowess was harvested."

"And how would your people be in position to flee?"

"There is evil in the world, but that does not mean all of the world is evil. The same proved true for the elves. A monk by the name of Heslant led the morally obligated on boats, and we fled."

"But—But what of the remainder? Surely they weren't defeated."

"It amuses me that you should think I would know," Upoh jested.

"Forgive mine ignorance, fair one."

"My forgiveness you have. Now, what mistake caused the Binding?"

"There was one being of mixed blood at the time, yet unburdened by a younger one. He attempted to bless the oldest and largest of the families. Instead, he cursed their souls to exist without embodiment. They became... Different. Controllable. Only, they didn't.

"To prevent a repeat of such a happenstance, and partially to appease the vengeful beings, the Binding was cast. For some reason, only the dwarves and we seemed to be affected, although your kind seems to be likewise limited."

"While these exchanges intrigue me, an Urgal and his bonded dragon went missing. Perhaps you would know where they are?"

"Can you not scry them?"

"Not while you block my magic, no."

"I will return it to you. If you try anything..."

"I figured."

In his mind, Upoh conjured an image of Kurdka, whose left horn appeared as to have never grown, and the right a jagged stump. He tried to define the curves of the student's muscles, the ebony-brown fur and yellow-tinted eyes.

He found an image of the Urgal, but the background appeared entirely black, and gashes covered the flesh. He seemed to be pulling upwards, but struggling, as if he were bound by chains.

Grimacing, the elf pictured Amnur in equally vivid detail, the scales camouflaging with the sunset. Again the image's environment appeared void, but the dragon thrashed its limbs and tail at invisible objects, jaw snatching at nothing.

Upoh released the magic, breath constricted by anxiety.

"How do they fare?"

"Alive, but unwell. The dragon is in combat, and the Urgal appears to be tortured and chained."

The newfound ally—if courtesies extended so far—unfocused his eyes, relaxing his posture.

"We lack any prisoners."

"Shades!" Upoh whispered. "Are there any other inhabitants of this area?"

"Nay. Unless... The ruins!"

"I beg your pardon?"

The Descendant slid a scrap of parchment from his boot and handed it to the elf.

"The ruins are a forsaken place. I shall give you a map to guide you, but none shall follow you to such a dreaded place."

"Sounds cheery," Upoh remarked.

 **I'm sorry it's short. Well, it always is, but more than usual. My writer's block may be especially bad at times, the reason being that I have ADHD. Yes, it's a real thing. Even when I take my medications for it, if I'm bored, it's EXTREMELY hard to focus. Some people say ADHD is just "kids being energetic." There's a huge, huge difference, but those people are intent on their prejudice, so I can't exactly say much. Anyhow, that's what's up if I don't post anything for long stretches of time.**


	24. XXIV

**Well, I'm back from writer's block, and I am excited to say that, while there will still be action, things are about to get a little more... political. Friendships will be destroyed, families will be broken, and both Algaësia and Alalëa will be changed forever. But that's gonna take a little more than one chapter.**

 **I have a poll up on my profile. Check it out.**

 _ **XXIV**_

Arya refused to panic. Sure, it'd been a bad day, but there everything would be fine.

 _Should we release them?_ Fírnen asked.

 _No. I don't trust them. Plus they'll be seen._

 _We should flee. It's no longer safe here._

 _And abandon my people? I shall do no such thing!_

 _They have already abandoned you_ , the dragon pointed out.

* * *

 **One hour earlier...**

"Queen Arya!" Däthedr panted, muffled behind a door.

"Däthedr, it's late. Can this not wait?"

He opened the door with no consent. "My Queen, Fiolr found a loophole."

"A loophole? In the paths for a meeting? Preposterous!"

"I wish it were so," he lamented. "He visited the Ra'zac at Oromis's old hut."

"Has he told anyone?"

"Every house, King Orrin, King Orik, Queen Nasuada and even Nar Garzhvog," he moped.

"What... How did they react?"

"My Lady, they have demand entrance to Du Weldenvarden. Refusal shall be considered an act of war, as willing the Ra'zac's presence."

"I will not stand for this, confound it!"

"If there were a hell, Fiolr would be damned. Is there anything you can do?"

Arya pondered the predicament. Even if she released Ninth Survivor, any remaining loyalty from her people would be lost upon letting the humans in. If she refused... She highly doubted Du Weldenvarden's wards would deter all of Algaësia for long. Only one being possessed the political power to forestall war.

"We need Eragon."

But when she had tried to scry the mirror above the fireplace, no connection formed. She scried the Order itself, finding all a smoldering ruin. She searched the world for Eragon, finding nothing. She imagined Kurdka, speaking the two words of sight, but was likewise blind. She searched for Théraen instead, desperate for confirmation. She saw the dwarf atop Jurgenurl, Eragon at her side. They were alive, but she lacked a means of contact. None of the elves accompanied Eragon, and since they had sworn an oath to him, they must have perished with Kurdka.

* * *

 **Present**

Murtagh sprung awake from the stress response as a floorboard creaked. Chains jerked him back, and he panicked further.

"New to chains? Do not attempt to escape."

 _Chains? Nay, not again. Wake up, Murtagh! It is just another night terror!_

"You have been broken, then? Good. It will make my time easier."

Murtagh screamed, his mental barriers broken. Emotion overwhelmed him. His mind, his one sanctuary, had been breached. He had been enslaved by Galbatorix, imprisoned by the Varden, trapped living with Morzan, but through all of it, in his mind, he was free. Now he was broken.

"Foolish boy," the intruder spat. "Freedom breaks you. I cannot break a broken man."

Murtagh glared at the speaker, whose features bore familiarity to a race he'd hoped to never see again.

"Why am I here, elf? Just kill me!"

"Kill you?" The captor chuckled. "Nay, I shan't kill you. You've yet to fulfill your purpose."

Purpose? The concept seemed foreign to him. He'd had a purpose once. But she had rejected him. Her words still plagued his subconscious.

 _"I cannot forgive, but I can understand."_

The people would see ensure perished, and Nasuada would agree. He had no purpose, no reason to live. The world would be better off without him, even Thorn.

"Kill me!" he begged.

"Who are you?" the elf demanded.

"A monster," Murtagh spat.

"A madman perhaps, but not a monster. Your beast, however, he was a monster."

"Thorn? 'Was'?"

"We slew the fiend."

"Why spare me? Take my life, not my dragon's!"

"Interesting," the elf mumbled.

"'Interesting?' I have been controlled by a sadist once. I wish not to be so again."

"Maybe the Urgal was right..."

"Urgal?"

"Aye. Said something about dragons. Such nonsense! Then again, maybe not."

"The fate of the Urgal?"

"Stubborn, as you shall no doubt be." He pulled out a heated rod. Murtagh tensed, preparing to forget himself in the pain. "I do enjoy—"

"My lord!" a young voice shouted, bursting through the door, stumbling.

"This had better be important," the sadist growled.

"The beast the Urgal spoke of has been detained."

"Excellent. Now we have a bargaining chip." He grinned at Murtagh. "I apologize. It would seem we must exchange pleasantries later."

 _Only in death shall I be free_ , Murtagh sulked.

* * *

Sleep created terror. Terror created adrenaline. Adrenaline created insomnia. Insomnia created madness.

Kurdka giggled, a low grumble, as if a base growled from his stomach.

The door opened, revealing the man who brought pain. Kurdka, instead of frightened, was joyed. Pain was the world. If he were in pain, he were alive. The delusions, the dreams, they were fake, but the pain? The pain was real.

"It appears your dragon has come, beast."

"Dragon? Ah, Amnur, aye. Of all the hallucination, that one was my favorite."

"Oh, 'twas real. Have you not felt the pain in its absence?"

Kurdka titled his head, then nodded. "Aye. It must be so, for I feel pain, and pain is the truth."

"You must tell me what you know, or you will never see the dragon again."

"What I know? What do I know, indeed? What is truth? I have seen many a thing. Which are true, I can tell you not."

"If you do not tell me, this 'Amnur' shall perish."

He frowned. Could the elf not understand his glee? He wanted the pain, to feel, to live.

"I shall allow you to reimburse the bond momentarily, if only to restore a shred of sanity."

"Sanity? Everyone things themselves sane, even the deranged. Who is to say you are not the insane one? It certainly seems that way to me!"

 _Kurdka_ , someone boomed. That voice... It wasn't painful. It brought joy wholeness, and yet...

 _It seems so real._

 _Kurdka!_

 _Of all of the voices in mine head, yours sounds the most concrete._

 _Listen to me! Murtagh is here! We must escape!_

 _Murtagh... Is he real too?_

 _My warrior, when we can, I will share my memories, for all are real. For now, you must be strong._

The voice faded, and Kurdka forgot what he believed. There were so many things, so many times that his eyes lied, as had his ears and his nose. He doubted the voice, but for some reason, he refused to disobey it. He could not let it die.

"What do you need to know?"

 **So yeah. Kurdka's pretty insane. By the time he escapes, he'll be even worse. He'll have schizophrenia, PTSD, borderline personality disorder, paranoia, Stockholm syndrome... It's a long list.**

 **Like it? Hate it? Let me know in the reviews below!**


	25. Announcement

**Sorry to disappoint, but we are experiencing minor turbulence in the progression of my stories. School's starting, and it's incredibly taxing. Around the time I start to forget words, I stop doing my homework. I'm on independent study, so it's basically all homework. For an entire school day.**

 **So, when you see the long pauses, don't think I'm dead, incapacitated or whatever crazy suggestions you creative internet users have come up with. A brain-dead Eagle + the back end of writer's block + ADHD = ...More writer's block, I guess?**

 **Temporary pseudo-hiatus.**


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